


~ A Throne of Shadows ~

by Spiced_Wine



Series: Blood Harvest [4]
Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Gen, Haunting, Legends, M/M, Mention of the Prime Universe, Mention of the Proto-universe, Modern Era, Multiverse, Portals
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-12-08
Updated: 2020-04-13
Packaged: 2021-02-25 21:07:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 13
Words: 65,165
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21721966
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Spiced_Wine/pseuds/Spiced_Wine
Summary: Set afterLast Night I Dreamt I Went to Summerland Again, Vanimöré wishes to reunite Maglor and his son Tindómion, but their lives, waking and sleeping, are disturbed by visions of an ancient universe.
Relationships: Maglor | Makalaurë/Original Male Character(s)
Series: Blood Harvest [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1693096
Comments: 157
Kudos: 33





	1. ~ The Last Fireflowers ~

  
  


  
  
[ ](https://postimg.cc/3kfjBtBT)   


**~ Prologue ~**

~ The cottage was the last house in the village, separated from it by a small copse. Behind, the land ran up through woods and little patchwork fields to the moors.

Edenel paused at the gate. Cottage was rather a misnomer for the long, rambling building, beautifully (and recently) thatched, with its whitewashed walls and hanging baskets. The front garden was lawned, with beds of cottage garden flowers and herbs around the edges, and behind the cottage, the tops of trees showed.

However charming the cottage, the feeling that struck Edenel was of...not misery, that would be too strong a word, but melancholia, a long, long waiting with no hope at the end. But deeper, at the heart, a furnace burned, resisting.

The lane was empty. He walked up to the door, and rang the bell. As the door opened, he sensed that it was unusual for anyone to call at this house.

Maglor was beautiful; he could never quite present as a Mortal in the same way that Edenel himself, and Coldagnir and Vanimöré could not. It took concentration and effort, especially in crowds.

Edenel said gently: ‘There is no need to use glamour with me, Macalaurë Fëanárion.’

Maglor, one hand on the door jamb stared at him as if he had seen a face, a vision, out of the remote past. His own glamor vanished like mist; raven hair flooding to his knees, face taking on the lines of something shaped out of white crystal, his eyes a luminous, burning silver under the winging arch of brows.  
‘Who...?’ He clung to the door as if his legs lost muscle, but then straightened, even as Edenel reached out. ‘Come in,’ he said, and opened the door wider. His own hand came out as if to catch something elusive that might drift away like mist if he did not hold onto it. Edenel gripped his hand.

The living room was beautifully furnished with touches of old gold and russet against warm, creamy walls. A few paintings hung, a vase was filled with flowers. The fireplace, empty now, in spring, was covered with a lovely screen. In one corner stood a full size harp, the rich scrollwork glinting, the strings seeming to shiver, give off a breath of sound when Maglor entered. The room smelt of furniture polish and flowers.  
  
‘One moment,’ he said, and returned with a bottle of red wine and two glasses, his eyes finding Edenel’s and holding them as if he could not believe that here was another Elf.  
  
‘My thanks,’ Edenel sipped the wine. It was excellent. ‘Maglor,’ he began. ‘I know of thee and thy life, and will explain why and how. Art thou willing to listen? I will answer all thy questions.’  
  
Maglor nodded. ‘Thou art...thy face...’ Imperatively, he caught Edenel’s hand. ‘Sit beside me.’ He drew them both down onto the sofa. ‘Tell me.’  
  
‘Thou art aware, I am sure, of thee theories of many worlds, parallel universes, the theory of the Multiverse?’ Edenel watched him.  
  
‘Yes,’ Maglor agreed slowly. ‘My father posited it.’ Long lashes swept over his eyes.  
  
‘So long ago that numbers are meaningless, there was another universe,’ Edenel said softly, tightening his grip on Maglor’s lean fingers. ‘Another world called Arda, where the _Quendi_ strove against Morgoth Bauglir. That world was similar in many ways to this one. And it was destroyed in the battle called Dagor Dagorath.’  
  
‘Destroyed,’ Maglor repeated, looking up, a frown between his brows.  
  
‘There was one who could not bear the loss of those he loved and so he spun new universes into being but, as he has said, because he could only create that which he knew, that which was in his mind, these other universes were all like the old, in myriad ways. But in that one, Maglor, the greater part of the _Quendi_ ascended to become gods.’  
  
‘Gods,’ Maglor said flatly, but the harmonics in his tone set the harp murmuring. ‘What in the Hells art thou saying?’  
  
‘Apparently, it was a natural progression for us, but one that the Valar — and perhaps someone else — hid from us, did their best to deny us, for a long time. Thou doth not believe me, but ask thyself this: was thy father, Fingolfin, Maedhros, thyself — and others, were they not almost as gods?’ Edenel looked into those silver eyes. ‘And, like the legend of Icarus, who flew too close to the sun, they dared to try and escape, to reach for what they truly were — and were doomed, and fell.’  
  
Heat emanated from Maglor, the whole posture of his body changing as if every muscle primed for war. And then loss, yearning and unbearable pride swept every other emotion from his gaze. ‘Yes,’ he whispered. ‘Tell me.’  
  
Edenel told him, how the history of the Elves had been basically the same, the damnation and the doom, and then, of the one who had reclaimed a Silmaril from the ocean and used to break into Valinor, who had walked into the fires of Fos Almir and himself become a god. And then the Silmaril had opened the Void, where the damned and oath bound were imprisoned. He paused, watching Maglor’s intent face.  
  
‘The Void?’ Maglor said, his voice strangled in his throat. ‘The _Void._?’  
  
‘They were damned for their rebellion, and for what the Valar called unnatural lusts.’  
  
Maglor stilled. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Here, it was the same. We knew we sinned in their eyes.’ His head came up, defiant still. ‘And I would do the same again.’  
  
‘I know,’ Edenel smiled a little. ‘Because it is natural, whatever the Valar told thee.’  
  
‘Who released them?’ Maglor asked, pain and love like a storm in his eyes.  
  
‘Thou didst know him there, and here too, although here, he was not quite the same.’  
  
A frown. ‘I knew him?’  
  
‘He was born Sauron’s son,’ Edenel told him carefully. _He knew my name, in this world,_ Vanimöré had told him. _Apparently Vanimöré was proud of it, here._ Unlike in the old world, where Maglor had believed him an Elf in thrall to Sauron and knew no name.  
  
Maglor came to his feet, white, then flushed, and blazing. ‘ _Him_? Vanimöré? If he told thee that, he lied,’ he spat.  
  
‘I told thee he was rather different in the old world,’ Edenel rose too. ‘But the one thou didst know is dead.’ And recently dead. ‘The one I know defied his father for thousands of years, and suffered unendurable torment for it. When the One Ring was destroyed at the end of the Third Age, he was freed.’  
  
Maglor turned away, his straight shoulders rigid. ‘Is this what he told thee?’  
  
‘He was captured during the War of the Last Alliance, Maglor, and it was witnessed — by Glorfindel — how he fought against his father’s will and was punished. But no doubt much of what he suffered was never witnessed by any but Sauron himself, and the minions of Barad-dûr.’  
  
‘Then how cast thou know?’ Maglor turned back, searching his face.  
  
‘When I met him, I saw it in him. I...’ He stepped forward. ‘I recognised another who had suffered torment. Maglor, thou doth know my face? I opened my eyes under the stars of Cuiviénen, beside one who was the other half of my soul. His name was Finwë.’  
  
Maglor stared, motionless as if caught out of time. His eyes flew over Edenel’s face and body. ‘His twin? I never...we never...knew there was one. His _twin_?’  
  
‘In the old world, I, and others, were captured and taken to Utumno,’ Edenel said calmly. ‘There, I survived, although, as thou cast see, I was changed. I and nineteen _Quendi_ , men and women equally. We defied Melkor and lived apart. We are still, the _Ithiledhil_.’ He heard his voice change, becoming many-in-one. ‘It was the name we chose for ourselves.’ He closed his eyes, felt the battle markings burn out on his flesh. He had drawn none in this world; these were the originals, that Culina had marked on him after they left Utumno — or the memory of them. ‘And now,’ he said, opening his eyes again. ‘I am ascended. I am a god, Maglor, and I am come to tell thee that in this world, thou shalt be, and thy beloved dead will come forth from the Halls of Mandos _and throw down the Valar._ ’.  
  
  
  


**~ The Last Fireflowers ~**

~ Vanimöré walked back from the barrow in the light, mild evening. He paused in the garden, remembering Samael cutting the grass. He did not know (still) if he had been right. Call it instinct. It was just possible (though unlikely) that Samael had heard Edenel call him ‘Vanimöré’. But the way the name had been spoken, with familiarity...He felt hollow, almost sick, and he would do it again. For Leon St. Cloud, there was no emotion at all. He had no compunction in killing any version of himself. _He was a fool, anyhow._

Coldagnir waited for him in the kitchen.  
‘Sauron?’ he asked.

‘Nothing,’ Vanimöré said, opening champagne. ‘He is as clean as the new-driven snow, Nemrúshkeraz. I can hardly learn much if he is in prison, can I? I might know where he was, but it is easier to follow his trail if he is free.’

‘True.’ Coldagnir regarded him, slid a hand across the table, linked their fingers. ‘There was nothing else thou couldst have done.’

‘Oh, there were several things,’ Vanimöré’s lips curved in bitterness. ‘We all make choices.’

‘Do not denigrate thyself for loving him,’ Coldagnir advised him softly. ‘So did I. So did others.’

‘Not for that,’ Vanimöré said, and drank. ‘For trusting him.’

The clock ticked, meaningless to them. ‘So what now?’

Vanimöré raised his eyes. ‘Maglor — and Tindómion. Tindómion killed thee in Gondolin, in this world,’ he said almost playfully.

Coldagnir’s mouth quirked. ‘Yes, and I would like to be the one to contact him,’ he said.

‘Truly?’ Vanimöré laughed softly. ‘Very well.’ He sat back. ‘Well, thou doth not _look_ like the Balrog he slew, so I doubt he will recognise thee.’

A shrug of one shoulder. ‘And that one made his own choices, too. He simply had no back-up.’

Vanimöré nodded. ‘Tindómion will be beginning his walk now. Where wilt thou meet him?’

‘I will catch up with him just after Brighton.’ A certain expression came into his eyes. ‘In any universe, I am fire born of fire, in the simplest assessment, Vanimöré. Born of the Flame Imperishable. I will always be drawn to it.’

And Tindómion burned, as Maglor burned, as Fëanor burned. ‘I am god of a single star, Vanimöré and am bound to no-one and would not wish it, but my allegiance as a god is to Fëanor if anyone, and to thee, who gave me the _Anguish_ , and from whom all proceeds.’ He bent his head. ‘If Fëanor is imprisoned, then my loyalty to that house is any of his blood: his sons, grandsons.’

‘And Eru?’ Vanimöré asked, unsmiling.

Coldagnir looked up. His eyes were flame from edge to edge. His hair curled and flowed into billows of fire.  
‘Eru betrayed me too, Vanimöré. But he also unmade Gothmog, and comforted me after my death in Angmar and in the Timeless Halls I became my true self again. But I returned for thee, and for them.’

‘Granted.’ Vanimöré remembered how Elgalad had laughed in delight when Coldagnir swept like a fireball out of the sky.

‘And I admit,’ Coldagnir said, ‘To a fascination for one who slew a version of me, here.’

‘Yes, I can imagine.’ Vanimöré smiled. ‘Tindómion. The last blossoming Fireflower of that bloodline. Then I wish thee luck.’

Once again, the mansion was empty. And the clock ticked.

**~OooOooO ~**

Morning came after a dragging night. The greyness settled on Vanimöré like fog, a sense that he was pointless, useless, did nothing and could do nothing; that, after he had failed to anticipate the outcome of Dagor Dagorath, failed to see through Elgalad’s deception, he served no purpose. He had felt this stripped-down emptiness before, but now it was more intense and (he knew) more perilous with the power he held. He watched the dawn spread its brightness over the gardens, the peaceful sea, then showered, dressed and went outside.

At this time of year, even a few days and weeds sprouted among the flowerbeds. Vanimöré knelt, letting the rich, warm scent of the earth surround him, honing his senses just to the work, digging his fingers into the soil, plucking out the weeds, laying them in a trug to take to the compost heap. A robin hopped down, following the work of his hands, pecking for earthworms and insects. He winked at it and it cocked its head, loose a little twitter. Vanimöré went into the shed for wild bird food and stopped. A white overshirt hung from one of the nails, where ‘Samael’ had taken it off when working and forgotten to retrieve it. Slowly, Vanimöré lifted it, brought it to his face, smelt the springtime scent of hawthorn after rain. A thousand images flashed through his mind. With a spasm of rage he tossed the shirt into a corner.  
‘Your move, Eru,’ he snarled.

The weeding, at least was simple. He worked along the border, trying to think of nothing at all. The sun grew warmer.

He was not sure when a prickle on the back of his neck alerted him. He stopped, closed his eyes, breathed in — and rose slowly, turning.

Edenel stood there and, beside him, Maglor.  
  
It hurt. It hurt every time, in every universe, to see him because, if there was anyone (beside Sauron) that Vanimöré felt a true bond with it was this man. Love and hate and power and passion all became indivisible. Edenel stood beside him, his snow-white eyes grave, but Maglor’s precise black brows barred his frowning gaze. His whole body was locked in tension, as was Vanimórë’s.  
  
Maglor said to Edenel in his resonant voice: ‘Thou didst say he was not like the other one.’  
  
‘He is not,’ Edenel replied, flashing Vanimöré a glance.  
  
‘Thou art right. He does not look exactly the same.’ He over forward and slapped Vanimöré’s face. ‘But like enough.’  
  
Vanimöré did not move. His cheek strung with the blow, but he could not resist smiling.  
‘And thou art exactly the same, Maglor Fëanorion. But come. I have something for thee.’ He brushed his hands and walked into the house, pausing in the utility room to wash away the earth. Edenel and Maglor followed more slowly, through the kitchen, the hall, and into the study.  
  
Vanimöré had placed the Silmaril and its housing in the safe. He opened the door and set it on the desk.  
_Thou didst not tell him_? He looked at Edenel who shook his head infinitesimally. _Not of this and not of his son. I judged it best that he come here, and then the rest can be revealed._  
  
Vanimöré nodded. ‘Maglor,’ he said softly. ‘I know how it is to live without hope. But I trust Edenel has given thee some, and here is more.’ He indicated the screen. ‘Slide it back and take what is thine.’  
  
Maglor looked, if not exactly distrustful, wary. At length, he reached out his hand. Vanimöré and Edenel backed out of the room, closed the door as the light exploded into the study and Maglor cried out — sound of pain and grief and love.  
  
  
  


OooOooO

‘He believed me, in the end,’ Edenel said, making coffee. ‘He wanted to. He wanted to so _much._ ’ He turned his head away.

‘I know he did. Hells, I understand him. Hope is the most ephemeral thing, but without it we have nothing.’

Edenel placed the cups on the table, sat down opposite Vanimöré. ‘There is always hope, Vanimöré, even if it is only in the will to resist because there may be something other, something more.’

Vanimöré smiled faintly. ‘Sometimes that has to be enough.’

A door banged. Maglor strode into the kitchen holding the Silmaril casing. ‘Where didst thou find this?’ he demanded, but there was a light in his face that must have glowed there long ago, when his father still lived.

‘It was encased in a clay ball, found in the cellar of a house built on a much older settlement,’ Vanimöré told him. ‘Coffee?’ He rose to get it. ‘Sauron found it,’ he added.

‘ _What_?’

‘And I liberated it. Sauron has fled,’ he said over his shoulder. ‘Although I know who he masquerades as, unless he changes his identity. I would rather know who he is than for him to vanish.’

Maglor placed the silver holder on the table. ‘Sauron...yes, I have been aware he is here.’

‘And been fortunate to avoid him.’

Maglor shrugged. His glamour was gone. He shook back the great mane of his hair. ‘Thinks’t thou I am afraid of Sauron, after _everything_?’ He laid a hand protectively — or possessively? — on the polished silver. ‘He could never have used it.’

Vanimöré put coffee before him. ‘Perhaps not, but he would have had a damned good try.’

‘My father would have rejected Sauron as he rejected Melkor!’ Maglor flashed.

‘Not would have, but still does,’ Vanimöré corrected softly. ‘Do not think of thy father as dead, Maglor. Even in the Halls of Mandos his soul resists.’

Maglor rounded the table intent as a predator. ‘Edenel told me thou wilt break a way into Valinor. But how?’

‘The same way I did in the world long gone,’ Vanimöré told him. ‘The Silmaril. And the other, too, if we can find it — and we will. The Valar hold one, but they are greedy, always have been. They will open Valinor to the bearer of the Silmarils, thinking to steal them.’ He smiled a little. ‘They are going to be surprised.’

Maglor’s eyes burned into his. ‘Lucien Steele,’ he murmured. ‘Apollyon Enterprises. I have heard of thee of course, and never dreamed...but then, I do not know thee, do I, not this Vanimöré?’

‘I knew thee Maglor, in the old world,’ Vanimöré said quietly. ‘Edenel will have told thee that events in these new universes march similarly to the old. It was not so different, save that I let thee go, thou didst not need to use the power of thy song to escape.’

‘Yes, he told me. And I could not believe it, but that one — the Vanimöré I knew —‘ And here rage blasted across his features, ‘would never have given up a Silmaril, would never have done the things Edenel says thou hast done.’

Vanimöré slanted a smile at Edenel. ‘No, this one was a fawning fool who followed his father, who even loved him and desired love in return. That well is a dry one. Sauron does not love. He is nothing like Fëanor, nothing at all.’

Maglor’s eyes shone with sudden tears, which he blinked away. ‘I want to know,’ he said, his voice hammered into steel and iron, ‘that I will see them again.’

‘All of them, Maglor, I promise, thee.’ He resisted the urge to take Maglor’s beautiful face in his hands and kiss it. ‘And thou wilt ascend as gods and take thy rightful place.’

The phone rang. Vanimöré said: ‘Excuse me. This is Howard. It may be of interest.’ He put it on speaker.

‘Quite a haul from Rochford,’ Howard said without preface. ‘I’m sending someone over with it. As for the rest: The men who were picked were transferred to Broadmoor on my recognisance. I don’t know what the hell happened to them Steele, at least I can guess, and I don’t want to know. They insist, if you can understand them through the gibbering and howling, that some fiery god came out of a candle, and burned them.’

‘Astonishing,’ Vanimöré murmured. Edenel’s eyes crinkled in amusement.

‘Drug tests are being done. The PM is, as expected, horrified at his deputy being picked up for using trafficked kids and participating in some kind of satanic ritual. He’ll be making a statement at midday. This is going to rumble on and on, Steele. There was some actor, two CEO’s, a couple of bankers...all wealthy, as well as Trent. The shit is flying like you would not believe.’

‘I rather expected it would.’

‘And _my_ department is in a frenzy about Leon. I have a meeting in half an hour. I am going to put every single employee through the wringer, Steele.’

‘Of course, although let me repeat, I am the one who should have been alerted to him. You did all you could.’

‘Not enough.’ There was a moment of Howard tapping a screen. ‘The trafficked kids: they’re safe enough now, being looked after. After that, well, a few are illegal immigrants through no fault of their own, but the Home Office is playing softly-softly with trafficked sex workers at the moment, so we’ll see what can be done. The others, we may be able to arrange for them to got to Moor Lodge.’ Moor Lodge was one of Apollyon Enterprises homes for the young and abused. ‘They’ll get the help they need there, medical, counselling—‘

‘See to it,’ Vanimöré agreed. ‘As for the others — each case must be viewed separately; some may have been kidnapped and want to go back home, others may have nothing to go back to in which case they would probably end up in the same situation. Keep me informed. ‘

‘I will.’ _Tap, tap, tap_. ‘So ...The artefacts we’ve found so far in Rochford, ah...no pictures, no cataloguing as per your order. A lot looks like the old boy, Roland’s, junk from around the world but archaeology and ancient artefacts are not my bag, Steele, as you know. They’ll be with you by early evening, depending on traffic.’

‘I’ll be waiting. Thank you.’

Vanimöré turned to Maglor. ‘Perhaps thou would be here to see the artefacts brought from Rochford? I am not sure if any are relevant to our interests, but it is worth a look.’

Maglor was looking at him strangely. What he said was: ‘Thou wert responsible for that raid in Surrey this morning?’

‘In a way, yes.’

‘ _That_ is where the Silmaril was?’

‘Yes, although at the moment, I have no idea how it got there, but there is more happening here than Sauron, even than the Silmarils.’ He gestured. ‘Wilt thou not sit?’

Maglor nodded briefly, sat down. Almost as an afterthought, he reached for his coffee.

‘I can give thee back thy birthright, Maglor, all of thee, that is nothing. But it is only part of a story so old universes have born and died since its conception.’ He looked into Maglor’s eyes. ‘And I have been born and died, and so hast thou, all the Quendi, even the Valar.’

‘What?’ Maglor demanded.

‘Fëanor spoke to thee of his theories that there were other worlds, not those that existed in the physical cosmos, but in different realities altogether.’

‘Yes,’ Maglor said sharply. ‘There was no was of proving it, but he believed it was so.’

‘And he was right, but one cannot see them — or not very often, and certainly no ordinary person can cross into them.’ He slid the mirror from his jeans pocket. ‘This is a shard of the greater whole. In the old universe, Fëanor created a mirror to, yes, mirror, if thou wilt, the Great Portal in the Timeless Halls.’ Maglor’s eyes flew up to his. ‘Being ‘Outside’ of time and space, the portal shows all universes, all realities. When the old universe was destroyed, the echoes of Dagor Dagorath were felt even Outside. The Mirror was nudged into one of the new universes, and broken; pieces of it scattered through the Multiverse. Sometimes they show up in other realities.’

Slowly, Maglor picked it up, opened it. ‘I see nothing.’

‘Perhaps thou wilt, in time.’ Vanimöré finished his coffee. ‘These new universes are like shadows to me; shadows born out of the shadows of my mind. Shadows cast by a great light that is gone. Even a creator is limited to what he knows, to the familiar. Which is why I will do all I can to return thee to thy true state, Maglor, but that does not explain why thou wert not _born_ gods.’

‘Edenel told me how thou didst become a god, become more than that,’ Maglor said slowly. ‘And what we became. And that the universe was destroyed. And how.’ He looked away. ‘Father,’ he whispered into the Mirror. ‘The Flame Imperishable.’

‘Yes, Fëanor was the Flame Imperishable,’ Vanimöré affirmed. ‘And when he met Melkor in all his power there could only be one ending.’ Vanimöré paused. ‘I think Fëanor knew it. I did not.’ _Why did I not_?

_He dropped his sword, pulled off his helm, let them fall like a statement of intent. They were of no use to him. Raven hair rayed about his fierce, diamond-beautiful face._

_‘Father.’ Maglor cried, his voice striking the aether like thunder, and Vanimórë, his heart breaking and a cold fury filling up the cracks, caught the Fëanorions in an iron fist of will. He thought he would weep as they raged and fought against him. But he did not let them go._

_Ancalagon’s wingspan dwarfed the skies, midnight shadow racing under them, his jaws open to a cavern of fire. Fëanor poised for a moment, then he moved. Faster, faster, a shooting star but, unlike a shooting star, he did not burn out, but raged with greater and greater brilliance. Against Ancalagon’s immensity, he was tiny, a firefly to an eagle, but bright as a hole opened to an infinity of Light, a declaration of Life set against that which would devour Life._

The Mirror spat white light...echoes of an immolation that had ended a universe. The room bleached white as if an atomic blast had detonated. Maglor was caught in it as in a flare, and his eyes blazed molten. He cried out, the mirror falling to clatter on the table as he stumbled away. Edenel caught him in his arms.

‘ _Father_ ,’ Maglor cried, and gripped Edenel hard.

‘He was the most glorious thing I have ever seen,’ Vanimöré said gently, painfully. ‘At that moment, he outshone the heart of the Universe itself.’ And he had known. He _had_ known.

Maglor shuddered, a convulsion of silent agony, hands clenched in Edenel’s shirt. Vanimöré looked away, unable to watch his pain, unable to heal it. He could not heal his own.

After a moment, Maglor drew away from Edenel. ‘Thou canst bring them back?’

Vanimöré began to speak then stopped, frowning. Edenel was watching him.  
‘I can bring them back _here_ ,’ he said. ‘I can reunite thee in this universe.’

Maglor took a few steps forward. ‘And in the one that is gone?’ And in his voice, the everlasting yearning that Vanimöré felt in his own heart like a weight of iron.

Edenel said: ‘From the Monument, Vanimöré, canst thou enter it?’

Vanimöré looked into the distance, no walls, no ocean or hills but an infinite vista of possibilities. He pressed his fingers to his temples.  
‘I already have..’ Two pairs of eyes, silver and white widened on him. He flung up his hands. ‘I mean I _did_. At some point, I made the decision to embody myself on Arda, in the old universe. I was born into it, just as Elgalad was, because I could not come down in my full power.’ His mouth twisted. ‘It is a pattern, a paradox of repeating events. I _saw_ what was going to happen and was born into Middle-earth to help the Elves to godhood, and to _change the ending_. And I failed. Why?’ He swallowed curses like acid. ‘Because I ran into the same barrier I always do: Elgalad-Eru, who can conceal not only himself from me, but other things too.

‘Hells,’ Edenel swore. ‘But, surely _he_ could not have wanted the universe destroyed. What would it profit him?’

‘I do not know. I need to know. He unleashed Melkor, did he not? Perhaps he wanted a clean slate. Perhaps _he_ wanted to confer immortality on thee, and earn thy gratitude, draw thee back into the fold.’ He spun away. ‘It all goes back to the ancient universe, where — I believe — we were born and gods and fell out of favour and were cursed.’ He shrugged. ‘It has to be done. Go back to the beginning. Eru blocks it, so we must find a way...But let me consider that for a time. Maglor,’ he turned back. ‘The Silmaril is only one reason I wanted thee to come here.’ There was no soft or gentle way to say it and Maglor, he thought, would not have wanted it. ‘There is one of thy blood _not_ imprisoned in the Halls of Mandos.’

Maglor’s face went blank. ‘What?’

‘Cast thy mind back to one night long ago in Vinyamar under Mount Taras.’ Vanimöré asked softly. ‘And a woman, a friend?’

Maglor’s lips shaped the name: ‘Fanari.’ Then expression exploded back into his face with a sweep of colour along high cheekbones. ‘She... bore a child? I did not...I never—‘

‘No, thou wouldst not, with Gondolin hidden, and after...’

‘After, we heard nothing, and after Sirion, we were anathema,’ Maglor acknowledged grimly. ‘But where is he? Where _is he_?’

‘Right now?’ Vanimöré almost smiled. ‘He is beginning a coastal walk around the UK, as he does every few years. An act that once held hope for him — hope of finding thee somewhere beside the oceans of the world.’

‘He _remained_?’

‘To find thee.’

Maglor shook his head. ‘But _why_? he could never have heard any good of me of my family.’

‘Could he not?’ Edenel said. ‘Fanari was always predisposed to champion thee, and in Gondolin there was Glorfindel and Ecthelion, who were never thine enemies. It was they who tutored thy son, trained him and fought alongside him.’

A hint of remembered softness crossed Maglor’s face. ‘Yes, father wanted them to follow him, but they had bound themselves to Turgon and would not be forsworn. And yet, later —‘

‘Later, Tindómion entered the service of Gil-galad as one of his knight-companions. Gil-galad had loved thee and Maedhros and Caranthir when thou didst visit Hithlum or, more rarely, when Fingon came to Himring. Whatever his people thought, he would not damn thee.’

‘Yes.’ Maglor’s voice shook. Now the memories were of pain and loss. ‘He even sent messengers to us on Amon Ered, but...the doom was on our very heels, we would not have it touch him.’

‘Yet it did touch him,’ Vanimöré said. ‘Thy son loved Gil-galad, was never able to openly be with him, the Laws being what they were.’

Maglor covered his face with his hands. ‘ _Tears unnumbered ye shall shed,_ ‘ he said through his fingers. ‘And Gil-galad died.’ After a moment, he raised his face, bloodless, eyes searing. ‘What is his name? What is my son’s name?’

‘Tindómion,’ Vanimöré said. ‘And Gil-galad named him _Istelion._ Very few people called him that, only those he was close to. He served Imladris until the War of the Rings, but then refused to take ship to Aman. His vow was that he would find his father if it took until Dagor Dagorath.’

‘Tindómion,’ Maglor repeated, the name savoured ripe berries, like hot wine. ‘Istelion.’ Then: ‘But why did he want to find me? He never knew me; he must have been close to his mother, so why would he not go West?’

‘Back into the the Valar’s cage?’ Edenel asked sternly, touching his arm. ‘Those who did go, like Glorfindel, the sons of Elrond, Fanari, too, who hoped that matters would be different, that they could help set things aright — and those who died before then — found no pity and no mercy. They were executed and their souls bound. Tindómion at least escaped that judgement, for like thee, he never regretted his love for Gil-galad and would never have sued for pardon.’

Maglor’s hands clenched. ‘Wilt thou vow to me,’ he looked straight at Vanimöré. ‘That we shall see the Valar brought down and the dead live again?’

‘I swear it,’ Vanimöré said solemnly. ‘By the love I bear to those gone in conflagration. I swear it to thee, Macalaurë Fëanárion.’

The silver eyes searched his face like torches. Maglor nodded, reached out for the mirror. ‘Show me my son,’ he commanded.

OooOooO


	2. ~ Threads of Fire ~

  
  
  
  
  
  


**~ Threads of Fire ~**

Vanimöré and Edenel left Maglor in the kitchen, giving him privacy as he looked into the Mirror. The shards could not be commanded by any save their creator, but Maglor was his son, and Vanimöré hoped that would be enough to open the mirror’s gates into vision.

‘It is painful to see him,’ Edenel said quietly as they walked down the lawn toward the rocky headland. ‘Not because he is faded or half — or wholly — insane, but to know how long he has been alone.’

‘That will always hurt,’ Vanimöré agreed. The sea frothed against the rocks below, the wind had risen, an unsettled spell of weather coming in. ‘But he is not alone now.’

Edenel laid a hand on his shoulder and they stood silent for a long time, listening to the crash and withdrawing sigh of the waves. Rain blustered in, light, warm, speckling their faces. After a while they turned back to the house. They entered by the front door, went through into the study. The wind increased, the rain beating against the long windows as if it were autumn. Vanimöré gestured to a seat.

‘Are there more, thinks’t thou?’ Edenel murmured.

‘More?’ Vanimöré came out of his thoughts.

‘Human-born _Quendi_ , or others.’

‘Like myself?’ Vanimöré smiled bitterly. ‘I do not know unless I look from the Outside. And I am sick of the things I know and tired of the things I do not. It is possible. Although I can understand why the Valar would condemn this version of _me_ to life as a Mortal. What a complete fool,’ he ended with scorn.

‘Thou art hard on him. Sauron can be charismatic, even I know that; he would not have been overlord of so many for so long, otherwise. He would not have been able to corrupt ar-Pharazôn.’

Vanimöré shrugged. ‘Ar-Pharazôn was ripe to be corrupted,’ he dismissed. ‘Just like the Nazgûl, like Malantur, the Mouth. And apparently so was I, in this world.’

‘It is not foolish to hope one’s father loves them,’ Edenel reproved gently. ‘Not that I had a father, but surely it is perfectly natural.’

‘Depends on the father, I would think,’ Vanimöré replied dryly. ‘Yes, even I desired it in the beginning, when I was too young to know or rather _accept_ what he was, when I still had hope.’ He rose restlessly. ‘And to the original question. Perhaps. But it does not happen everywhere, I think. The Valar are content with the souls of the damned raging in the Void, hopefully ceasing to exist, or shut in the Halls of Waiting, little more than shades of memory.’

The door opened impetuously. Maglor strode as if he was lord of the manor. Vanimöré hid a smile; he loved this evidence that Maglor was still a prince, who had ruled Maglor’s gap in Beleriand. Despite his clothes, he looked none other.

‘Where is he now?’ he asked without preface. ‘Where is my son?’

‘Not so far,’ Vanimöré said. ‘Thou wilt see him soon.’

‘I _have_ seen him, in the Mirror.’ A kind of radiant joy alternately flashed and faded in his eyes, as if he could not quite believe what he had seen. ‘He looks like...’

‘Like thee,’ Edenel said. ‘Like thy father. Yes. And he loves thee, Maglor.’ He took Maglor’s hands. ‘Do not doubt it.’ He glanced at Vanimöré who went out and returned with a bottle of champagne. Maglor was talking, the power in his voice, the resonance unlocked from caution, shivered the glasses.

‘—all these thousands of years. I never knew, _why_? I should have known, I would have searched for him as he searched for me—‘

‘—The Valar,’ Vanimöré interpolated. ‘Who else? They would prefer thee, Maglor, to be roaming forgotten and mad with grief, faded into a shadow. They would _prefer_ thy son never to find thee, or if he ever did to find a broken man.’ he handed Maglor a glass. Over the rim, the silver eyes met his.

‘The Valar,’ Maglor repeated, his teeth grinding the name into shards in his mouth before spitting it out. ‘I would never,’ he stated, ‘give them the satisfaction of becoming a broken _thing_!’ He threw back the champagne in one swallow, set down the glass like a declaration. ‘But my son...my son...to remain for me, whom he did not know?’ His glossy black head bent, shook in wonderment.

‘What else would he do?’ Vanimöré said almost harshly, bringing the head up. ‘He was raised to love thee, to believe thy cause worthy, tragic, doomed, and the Valar _wrong, wrong, wrong._ As they were. Better here, than executed as a criminal and condemned to eternity in Námo’s sick embrace.’

Maglor’s luminous eyes flinched. ‘Yes, yes, but there are those I love who _are_ imprisoned.’

‘They will be freed,’ Vanimöré promised. ‘But first thy son. A friend of ours has gone to meet him, and will bring him here. He will need a little time to prepare, too, I have no doubt.’ He eyed Maglor’s face, incandescent with a new hope, an unexpected love. ‘Be patient a little longer.’

OooOooO 

Vanimöré cooked a light dinner and after, the promised ‘haul’ from Rochford arrived, being carried into the house by stony-face professionals. A trolley was needed for the largest item, which was deposited, with the rest, in one of the large drawing rooms. Vanimöré spread cloths on the table and broke open the boxes.

Most of it did not, on first sight, look that interesting, small items wrapped in cloth and itemised with, presumably, Roland’s handwriting: _Teotihuacan. 1973. Baghdad. 1974._ and so forth. Vanimöré left them for the moment, glanced at Maglor who was frowning at the large box on the table.  
‘Shall we?’

He slit the box with a knife, folded it the edges back and drew out a mass of old sacking and cloth. Maglor looked into the interior — and his face changed. Thrusting his hands inside, he lifted out a _Palantir_.

The stone was twice as large as a football, and formed out of some dark blue-black glass that glinted as with points of gold and silver that shifted as if blown by an unseen wind. It looked impossibly _heavy_ , yet Maglor handled it as if it were the thinnest of spun glass, a shell. Vanimöré remembered the smaller stone he had found that had passed into the hands of Claire James.

‘The Elostirion Stone,’ Maglor said, gazing at it. He closed his eyes a moment. ‘Knowest thou of it?’ Vanimórë nodded. Maglor continued: ‘It was kept in the Tower of Elostirion on the Tower Hills, west of the Shire. It looked West only. Some called it the Elendil Stone. I went there once, to the Tower, to look in it. I wanted to...see the past.’

Edenel said softly, ‘I understand that only too well. But why would Fëanor create a stone that would look back to Valinor?’

‘He did not,’ contemptuously. ‘We brought _all_ the Palantir to Endor originally, but the great stones...in the wars, they were not easily carried. I can lift this easily, but it was the size more than anything. There were times we had to abandon wagons and go on foot or horseback only. Some were lost, Maedhros’, which was later called the Osgiliath Stone, after the Tears, mine, the Ithil Stone, when I retreated from the Gap. We kept, until the last, some of the smaller stones, more to see with than communicate by; with _Ósanwe_ we did not need the _Palantir_ to speak mind-to-mind. The Osgiliath stone, the greatest, which my father would have used...had he lived...Maedhros gave to Fingolfin.’ He paused, eyes intent on the shining surface. ‘I do not _know_ this, but I believe, after the War of Wrath, the Valar recovered the great stones and took them back to Valinor. Later, their lackeys took them to Númenor, and Elendil brought them to Middle-earth when he fled. But the Valar must have tampered with them somehow, and turned this one into the West.’ He smoothed one hand over the stone’s surface, as if to wipe away the memory of their hands upon it. ‘I met an Elf at the Tower of Elostirion.’ A faint smile. ‘Gildor Inglorion he was called, a Noldo of a group he called ‘The Wandering Companies’, who lingered yet in Middle-earth. I hid myself under glamour, but I believe he knew who I was. He told me of the stones, and where each one rested.’

‘It must have been difficult,’ Vanimöré murmured. ‘To see it again.’

A hard breath. ‘It was. Just to touch something he had...’ His eyes came up, levelled like silver lances. ‘I _loved_ him.’  
  
‘I know,’ Vanimöré replied, smiling. ‘I love him, also. And I have seen him in all his glory, Maglor, as wilt thou.’ He was not able to resist, this time, the impulse to step forward, to take that wonderful, defiant face in his hands, feeling the curve of bone under the skin, its warmth as his fingers cupped it. ‘ _As wilt thou._ ’  
  
Maglor’s flesh suddenly burned. ‘I want to believe it,’ he whispered, as if his throat had closed up over the hope. ‘It has been so long, so long...’  
  
‘Not much longer,‘ Vanimórë promised.  
  
  
  


OooOooO

Coldagnir’s plan to Follow Tindómion from east of Brighton underwent a change at the outset when Tindómion unexpectedly took a train from Brighton to Bournemouth. He seemed in a hurry, and Coldagnir wondered if this was Maglor, drawing him with no more than a sense of closeness, of yearning, of love. Whatever the reason, there was a certain urgency. Coldagnir bought a ticket with a minute or two to spare, and settled himself a few seats away.

At Bournemouth, Tindómion hopped on a bus to Swanage, and joined the South West Coastal path.

It was quiet country west of Poole, a few scattered hamlets and villages, little more until one reached the great jutting headland of the Bill of Portland. Tindómion turned inland that first evening, hiking into a pretty village and an old cottage that advertised single and double rooms and a private guest lounge.  
  
Coldagnir gave him half an hour and knocked on the door.  
  
‘I’m so sorry,’ said the pleasant woman who answered. ‘We only take one booking a night, one party.’ She looked apologetic. ‘It makes it cosier you see. More private.’  
  
‘I understand,’ Coldagnir assured her. ‘I only ventured to inquire because the gentleman who’s booked in is a very old friend of mine; I haven’t seen him in years and thought I must be mistaken when I saw him hiking the coast path.’ He allowed a little persuasion, a little power, to colour his voice and saw the woman smile.  
  
‘Oh,’ she said, moving toward him to speak conspiratorially. ‘That’s lovely. We _do_ have two bedrooms.’  
  
‘Perhaps you should ask if he minds another guest,’ Coldagnir suggested gently. ‘Although not that I am an old friend. I’d like to surprise him.’ She nodded and went off, reappearing a few minutes later.  
‘Not at all,’ she beamed. ‘He doesn’t mind. Come along.’  
  
He signed in the tiny reception as Sol King, an apt enough name given to him by the DDE. Tindómion, as they knew, was called Tim Seren, the latter name being Welsh for ‘star’, a nod to _Istelion_ , _Son of Silver Light_ , or so Coldagnir imagined. He was shown up steep, spiralling wooden stairs, with the lady cautioning him to watch his step, to a small landing. There were three doors, a bathroom and two bedrooms. ‘Tim’ had one, Coldagnir the other, a simple, neat double bed in a room with exposed beams, and sunny curtains.  
  
‘Thank you,’ he said and she smiled and nodded.  
‘Will you be having dinner?’ she asked. ‘Some people prefer to go to the pub, but my husband cooks and he’s good. Nothing fancy, mind, but good. And we have a license for alcohol.’  
  
‘I’ll eat here, thank you.’  
  
‘I’ll go and let Arthur know. You can have drinks in the lounge while you wait. What would you like?’  
  
‘Ah, a glass of red wine would be fine, if you have it.’  
  
‘Half an hour then, in the lounge. Plenty of time for a shower, although your friend’s in the bathroom now, but there’ll be hot water to spare, don’t you worry.’ She closed the door behind her and Coldagnir set down his backpack, laying a pair of jeans and a short-sleeved shirt on the bed. After a few minutes, he heard the door of the bathroom open and shut, the closing of the bedroom door opposite his own. Although he did not need to shower, his internal radiation acting as a permanent kind of cleaning mechanism, he found it relaxing to stand under the flow of water, soaping his hair and feeling the coolness on his warm scalp. By the time he dressed and went downstairs, it was almost half past five.  
  
Tindómion was already there, leafing through a magazine, a glass of wine on the table before him. It was closest Coldagnir had seen him in person at least in this world. Tindómion’s glamour slightly darkened the rich bronze of his hair and kept it short, thick and glossy, and his eyes were pale grey rather than their authentic mithril-silver, though still strikingly bright under the long dark lashes. His features were slightly blurred and softened into humanity, but he kept his impressive height, the warrior-slimness of the Noldo, the sense of power that could be overwhelming. And the sorrow, the endless, defiant and furious sorrow. The seas of the Ages might lash it with loss, with disappointment, but still it stood.  
  
Tindómion glanced up, inclined his head briefly. ‘Mrs. Rutherford said someone else was looking for a room,’ he remarked, his voice accentless, mellow as autumn, and nodded to the wine. ‘It seems we share similar tastes.’  
  
_That is perfectly true, in a sense._  
Coldagnir poured himself a glass of the red and tasted it before sitting down. ‘Thank you, I hope I don’t intrude.’  
  
White teeth gleamed. ‘No, in fact, I am glad you’re here.’ He set down his own glass and the magazine. ‘Because now I can ask you why you have been following me since Eastbourne.’ And there it was: the danger suddenly unveiled like a sword drawn from its housing. In any universe Tindómion was a warrior, and a deadly one, a commander who had always lead from the front, or fought alongside Gil-galad and Glorfindel. And, in battle, all the fire of his Fëanorion nature was unleashed.  
  
‘Ah,’ Coldagnir said.  
  
‘Hardly hiding were you? I saw you follow me to the station, get on the train, and the bus to Swanage.’ Tindómion’s eyes strayed to Coldagnir’s hair which, while dimmed from its flaming crimson, was red enough to be a beacon. As a god, Coldagnir could hide himself rather more successfully even than an Elf, and could appear in any guise he wished (like Vanimöré) but perhaps, he thought, he had not been trying very hard with this man.  
  
‘No, I have indeed been following thee.’ Coldagnir dropped into antique Sindarin, and Tindómion came to his feet, staring. The moment seemed to stretch into hours, the light frozen at the window as if forbidden to enter the room. Tindómion’s glamour misted away, his massy hair flowed free, his features, Maglor’s, Fëanor’s, shone like white ice, and his eyes were as fierce as an arrowhead pointed at the heart.  
He said, at last: ‘Thou art no Elf.’  
  
‘I am not,’ Coldagnir agreed. ‘I am, if thou wilt, a messenger, from a friend. I am bound to Fëanor and to another, and I have a story to tell thee, Tindómion Maglorion Fëanorion, if thou wilt hear it.’  
  
  
  


OooOooO

Dinner would have gone unregarded but neither wanted to insult the cook. They were silent until the meal was served and then ate quickly. Tindómion wanted to talk. Watching him, Coldagnir was struck afresh by how similar he was to his father and grandfather, save for the hair; the way he used his hands when he spoke was pure Maglor, pure Fëanor, those slim artist’s fingers, strong and graceful.

‘Sometimes,’ Tindómion said. ‘I thought I dreamed of different worlds, where things were changed, if only a little. Perhaps they were not dreams, thou wouldst say?’ His mouth bent in a kind of pain. ‘Once I dreamed I saw Gil-galad, but he was Mortal. Still so beautiful...He was a dancer...ballet.’ He looked away, jaw set. “He was with a friend, a woman, with hair like hammered red-gold. There was snow, and sunlight in lovely rooms...’ He closed his eyes. ‘Sometimes, dream or not, one does not want that dream to end.’

‘Not dreams,’ Coldagnir said with emphasis. ‘Glimpses of alternative realities.’

Tindómion looked back at him, his face beautiful, desolate, fierce as a starving wolf’s.

They declined desert, went outside and walked toward the coast. The cloud hung low, a faint drizzle misting the air. The path dipped down toward the grey sea. There was no-one around.

‘My father wants to see me?’ Tindómion asked and there was, in his voice, an eagerness, the need of a child who has never known a father.

‘How not?’ Coldagnir answered simply. ‘The bonds of the House of Fëanor are forged of fire and steel.’

Tindómion’s expression hardened. He turned away, gazed out at the sea. ‘Is it? I never knew it. I was the last survivor.’

‘I know.’

‘In Gondolin I would have been outcast were it not that I were born into a noble family, and Glorfindel and Ecthelion befriended me. After it was the same. They wanted me, most of them, to wear my Fëanorion blood like shame.’ He looked back. ‘I did not.’

‘No Fëanorion would,’ Coldagnir agreed.

After a long, summing look, Tindómion returned his gaze to the sea. The wind, mild, briny, lifted the great cloak of his hair like a banner outflung from a tower’s battlements. ‘Well, we will see,’ he said with a kind of sober acceptance. ‘I have lived alone long enough. But I vowed to find him. I will not be foresworn.’

‘The Valar prevented it. They did not utterly forget the Outer Lands, Tindómion.’

‘I believe it, from people who have crossed my path over the years.’ His beautiful mouth went hard. ‘From temptation in dreams to ‘ _come home_ ’. He ground one foot into the grass. ‘This is my home. or it was. But there is no place for me or those like me in this world. Not anymore. Thou hast said we will...ascend.’ His eyes searched Coldagnir’s like lamps. ‘And that thou hast seen us do it, in another world.’

‘It was like watching someone banished come home.’

Tindómion took a step toward him. ‘Messenger,’ he said. ‘But not of the gods, I trust no god. So...whom art thou?’

‘The gods I serve are not the Valar, Tindómion Maglorion. The Valar were usurpers. My name...in Sindarin it is Coldagnir. I was Nemrúshkeraz in Valarin. My truest name, my oldest was Urphiel.’ He stood back, stretched out his arms, let the solar fire burn out from his core, running through his veins, flowing from the roots of his hair, flaring his eyes. Most would have flinched back, unable to look, but Tindómion, blood of the Flame Imperishable, did not. The light burned his own silver eyes to luminous mercury, blanched his face to parchment. He leaned forward as if into a storm-wind, bronze hair whipping, almost as bright as Coldagnir’s own.

‘I am the Sun,’ Coldagnir said, the diapason roar of the solar furnace in his voice. ‘In all worlds. In some, I elected to come down and fight Melkor on Arda. But Melkor is more than a god, far more, and I fell into corruption. In this world, I was _Valarauka_ , one of the Balrogs who denned in Utumno and Angband. In my own world, I fled after the War of Wrath and slept under the Orocarni mountains for thousands of years until I was awoken. After, I pledged my allegiance to Fëanor. In this universe, I — or the version of me that exists here — was slain in Gondolin, by thee, Tindómion Maglorion.’ he drew the power back into himself and the evening seemed dark.

‘A _Balrog_?’ Tindómion’s hand went automatically to where, as a warrior, he would seize his sword hilt. He checked himself but a wild fury rose in his eyes. He threw himself at Coldagnir, grappling him, and their feet slipped on the damp grass. They went over the low cliff, tumbling into the surf that lashed the sand.

‘I will not fight thee!’ Coldagnir pulled himself away, rose on immense triple wings that scattered shards of light like jewels. Tindómion, righting himself, glared up, uncowed, unafraid, long hair drenched, eyes like light. ‘I am bound to thy house, Fëanorion!’

Tindómion stared at him for a moment, unforgiving. ‘ _Prove it._ ’

‘I prove by deeds, not by words.’ Coldagnir lifted Tindómion from the sea and winged upward to the path, letting him down gently as a feather’s fall. ‘I will fight against the Valar on this world as I did in mine.’ The wings vanished in a spatter of radiance. Coldagnir glamoured himself again. ‘Let me take thee to thy father.’

Perhaps it was the only argument that Tindómion would have listened to as he stood there, defiant, angry, untrusting. _He is willing to risk this being a trap._

‘Take me then,’ Tindómion responded, challenging. ‘And may the Dark devour thy soul if thou art false.’

‘First let us return to the house,’ Coldagnir suggested. ‘We need to find a portal. A standing stone, a tumuli, some ancient place.’

Something flickered in the silver eyes. ‘Ah.’

‘Thou knowest of the properties of such places?’

‘I explored the possibility long ago,’ Tindómion admitted grudgingly. ‘I discovered it almost by accident. I have used them, yes, but it is safer when one knows exactly where one wishes to go to. The portals are dangerous.’

‘Yes,’ Coldagnir agreed. ‘But fortunately I do know exactly where I (and thou) wish to go.’ he pointed west. ‘Little more than a hundred miles. It is a house called Summerland.’

OooOooO

_Thou art lost, Vanimöré._

The voice came out of stillness, slid under the half-heard wind. It fell into Vanimórë’s consciousness soft as silk woven of starlight and then came, like the moment when thunder follows lightning, the power, the weight of it, the essence: adamantine, fire, blood. It was luminous as the lingering notes of a great music in some vast and empty cathedral, and shadows of pain cloaked it like a burial shroud. But through it all drove a cold spike of pure fury, the ice of the blackness between suns, the deep cold of space. It was a rage Vanimöré knew well, could taste on his own tongue.

_Thou art lost. We are both lost. There is no going back. Always we must be on the Outside._

Vanimöré sat up in bed. The wind still blew strongly, rattling the old panes, but the rain had stopped. He went to the window, opened it, let the cool air blow into his face.  
‘Get thee _gone_.’

_Always on the Outside..._

Not his world. None of these were his. He had created them out of the heart of his grief and rage, but still they were not his home. His home was forever gone, vanished in the dust of exploding stars. A light that had blinded and destroyed a universe.

He bent his head, breathed around the agony that never faded. There was no word to describe the _ache._ The loss. And no point to it either.

_No going back._

He returned to the bed, lay awake as the wind soughed in the pines, and drove the sea in fuming violence against the rocks of the headland. He thought he would not sleep and what came, after hours, was not sleep, but skimmed it like a swallow’s flight over a river.

The voice said: ‘I began as a thought.’

‘Everything begins with a thought.’

‘My first thought was “Who am I?” And the reply came back. _Thou art the last. And the First. You are the One. The only one. Eru._

‘Such words had no meaning to me, then. I simply felt himself as _being_ a thought and form that possessed existence. I questioned: “Whom art _thou_?” And the reply was: _I am thy maker. And this is thy world, this and all the worlds beyond._

“Why?”, I asked. But there was no answer.’

‘I did not remember not having existed _before_ , or that there even was a ‘before’. I looked up at an expanse of blue rippled with white and my mind found words for them. Many words, in many languages.’

‘I named what I felt, what I saw, and did not pause to wonder why I did or how I knew; the knowledge was there, unfurling like the flowers I touched with my fingertips. I walked the world, through forests of pine, woodlands of great trees whose leaves burned into red and gold as the season changed, beside dark lakes, across mountains, their peaks white with us melting snow. I crossed deserts, prairie and savannah, swam rivers, let the ocean waves cream and froth over my feet. I held a butterfly in the palm of my hand, dived with the sounding whales and yet deeper, to the chasms of the oceans. I soared with the high-flying eagles and slid down the beams of rainbows, buried into the rich earth, danced with the open leaves of the springtime trees.’

The half-dream held Vanimöré as one buried alive but aware of it. He did not, from the first moment of awareness, struggle to free himself of it. Although that voice held unbearable echoes of another, of betrayal and pain and the blank, terrible horror of an ending, this dream was showing him where it had all begun. _And it is not yet ended._

‘When I had explored the word, I climbed into the sky, and further, watched the blue-green world from the great satellite that orbited it, that waxed and waned in the night sky. I dived into the immeasurable energy-roar of the sun and basked in its power, then went beyond, rode on comets, sat upon slow-tumbling asteroids. I sought other worlds and other suns, drifted among the nebula where new stars formed. I absorbed the explosion of supernovas, skimmed the event horizon of the massive black holes in the centre of each galaxy.’

Vanimöré thought he woke again, walked to the window again, laid his hands against the cool glass. He looked back, saw himself laying on the bed, locked in the stasis of the dream. Then the room shimmered, shifted, and he saw Claire drink a glass of bandy and his own immortal blood that would drive Thuringethil’s poison from her veins. She settled to sleep, lamplight burning in the rose gold of her hair. He saw himself kiss her brow. The sorrow and sweetness.  
_I can give thee no blessing, Claire James, I was never any good at that..._

 _Art thou dreaming this too, Claire, somewhere?_ He watched the dream-Claire’s brows twitch, her lips part. He reached out a hand as if to soothe her, and her image melted away.

He turned back to the window. Glass, wall, all faded to the sleet of starlight. He joined the voice on its exploration of this ancient cosmos — if old or young or Time itself meant anything at all.

 _And now,_ said that detached, ice-cold part of him that never closed its eyes, never trusted, never slept, the part that was pure Sauron. _I am the observer, the dreamer within the dream._

Vanimöré saw Eru come down upon his world in a blaze of silver light, hair streaming upward, great wings of silver and jet and crimson. Eru. Elgalad. He had never seen Eru’s face, of course, because it would have shown him one already known. Not quite the same this one, not an exact copy of Elgalad’s but close enough save for the power that, in this ancient universe, was uncloaked and blazing and the eyes, which, while still as pure and clear as dew, held something frighteningly inhuman. And still, that face was too close to the wound, to the rip in his soul. The observer within him, aloof, bade him watch, held him back from the rage that would have woken him, snapped the threads of the dream.

_Is he aware of me, or am I seeing the past, a witness only?_

_Watch,_ the observer said. _Watch and learn._

After his exploration of his universe, Eru became aware of a new desire: to _share_ all the beauties he had seen. He had no concept of anything being impossible to him, but this matter was so astounding, so wonderful that he felt a sense of awe. Others like him, to share the glory, to _be_. He did not want to be the only one.

There was no blueprint but himself, and all his saw. Beings like him, but individual. His mind thought first of the fire that ran through all creation, exploded in such a profusion of _life_ on this world and the others he had seen.

 _Yes,_ he thought and summoned it, so that the sky lit with flame, spearing toward the planet and then changed, coalescing into a being. Tall, he was, and beautiful beyond measure, a mane of gleaming black hair storming to his knees, his eyes blazed like clear gems in the superb architecture of his face. The fire sank into his flesh, his eyes.  
‘Yes,’ Eru said. ‘My flame.’

For a moment, the being did not reply, though his eyes were perfectly aware, almost threatening in their intelligence. He looked at Eru, down at himself, ran his hands over his face into his hair.  
‘Fëanor.’ His voice was resonant, deep.

He named himself — how marvellous! — and the name was apt. ‘Yes,’ Eru said. ‘ _Yes._ Thou art the Spirit of Fire.’

He reached out, took the slim, strong hand and lead him forth into the world and then out into the stars. A million years passed before they returned. He watched Fëanor delve into the earth and bring forth their treasures, shaping him them with his mind. Thinking, he looked up. From where they stood, a formation of stars crowned the night sky. Fëanor had named it the ‘Crown of the World.’

‘Three of thee,’ Eru murmured. ‘Three of thee to match those stars.’

Fëanor came to his side, smiled. ‘But first,’ he said. ‘The Song.’ Turning those magnificent eyes to Eru, he elaborated: ‘The Song that rings through all the universe.’

‘Of course,’ Eru said, the excitement growing within him. ‘Join me, call it into being.’

They raised joined hands to the stars and it came, the Great Song, the roar of suns, the arpeggios of distant stars, the hum of planets, the agony-ecstasy of supernovas, the basso declamation warning of the Black Holes..

...And the Song came. So like Fëanor he was, Maglor, save his eyes were silver as polished metal. He opened them, smiled and came toward Fëanor and Eru, clasping their hands.

‘And now, the others,’ Eru said, and they came. Starfire, from those supergiant suns, and then there came the image of a spring-dawn...  
‘There is more,’ he said. ‘More.’ He walked away, and they came with him, the world rolling under their strides. Sometimes they summoned their imagined wings to fly, or ran untiring with the wind in their hair.

Eru paused. Watched the sun rise over the first eager growth of spring, pale yet, but shining on the white clouds of blackthorn, gold and silver. Youth. Beauty. Innocence. He came in to being as a man with silver-gold hair pouring down his naked body, eyes as blue as the sky at dawn. Flame and Song and Starfire embraced him, took him in. They walked all, of the, through the seasons: Summer strode on the heels of Spring, molten, powerful, hair of spun gold, valiant, rejoicing in his life while it lasted, eyes like the sea. Autumn followed, a ripe moon floating in the sky as sunset came with the scent of falling leaves. Her hair was rose-gold, and her eyes as grey as the luminous twilight. She burned the trees into flame, drew the dying leaves from the trees with the touch of delicate fingers; they flowed in her wake, whispering of gentle regret, of fate, the knowledge of death and the possibility of rebirth. Winter tracked her like a predator, like a lover, a man of white hair and eyes, tall and beautiful, with power over the the ice and snow, the unforgiving darkness of the longest night.

‘And now, the Sun,’ Eru declared and its spirit formed in lengths of scarlet and ember hair, and eyes that burned with solar power; his skin had a sheen like the pale opals Fëanor mined from the earth.

There was a silence as of Ages ripped by the winds of creation, then stillness returned, darkness. Vanimöré was aware of his slow breathing, the touch of a sheet on his flesh, the mattress beneath him, a breath of dawn air through the open window.

 _Perhaps I was wrong._ The voice came out of the darkness, out of the stars. _But creation was a beautiful madness, and I loved thee and wanted to share it all with thee._

_So far, so good, but not enough. Conditional love is no love at all._

_It was not conditional! They were part of me, of me. I just wanted them to be safe._

_From whom_?

Another silence, and then: _I created them too, I must have, but they were...wrong, like things left over, the scrap-end of a carcass after butchering. Three of them especially. But they had power, how not? And intelligence in a mean, cramped way. They were jealous of my first creations._

 _Those who became the Valar,_ Vanimöré stated.

_Only three of them. Varda, Manwë and Námo. But their words were enough to draw others to their side._

Vanimöré waited.

 _The first lie was mine,_ Eru continued. _When they asked me why I did not love them as much as the others. I told them I did, but they knew better. Perhaps children always do. They were formed out of the parts of me I did not even acknowledge or recognise, those parts that became Melkor: jealousy, envy, hate, the desire for lordship over others. After a time, short to us, but measured in thousands of years, they took themselves away to steep in their bitterness, to consider what they would do...And what they did was learn and consolidate their powers._

 _And thou didst wish to keep those love ones safe._ Vanimórë understood it, and disagreed nevertheless. _And so did not prepare them for conflict._

_Gods cannot die, and they were more than gods, but they could still be hurt, their physical forms destroyed. I could not bear to see them hurt._

_But how didst thou know of war?_ Vanimöré-the-Observer asked curiously. _In a world, a cosmos where there had been none_?

He felt, then, the change in the energy, a cold and rising anger, a bewilderment that he himself was all-too familiar with, the shock that comes with the destruction of love, the killing knife held in a lover’s hand. The scorched earth of betrayal, of a grief that can never be healed.  
_Dost thou not know_? Eru demanded. _Dost thou not remember? Thou didst bring it, warrior, commander, prince, the knowledge of war, of violence, of armies, of rebellion. My first child, my only child, the most loved. It was_ thee.

OooOooO

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note that Tindómion’s mentioned ‘dream/vision’ of Gil-galad as a ballet dancer and with Claire James as a friend is a nod to Narya-Flame’s, Bluebird’s.
> 
> https://archiveofourown.org/works/20938430/chapters/49779395
> 
> Seasons greetings to anyone who is reading. May the holiday and new year bring you much kindness and good things. 
> 
> Thank you for reading, and a shout out to dear Sveta who has emailed me with comments and insights since I posted on LOTRFF.com, making her one of my longest readers. Thank you so much, Sveta for so clearly ‘getting’ the stories 🤗 I know you don’t comment but I hope you read this!


	3. ~ The Lotus Child ~

  
  


**~ The Lotus Child ~**

OooOooO

~ The wind died at dawn. A mist lay over the sea; there was a heavy, humid warmth in the air, an almost tropical bruised-green scent. From nearby a seagull called, the high _crick-creak_ of a nursery room door that would send children under the bedcovers at tonight.

‘Thou didst see it,’ Vanimöré stated as Edenel joined him in the dove-coloured morning, coffee fumes steaming from their cups.

‘Yes.’ Edenel frowned into the coffee. ‘But are we seeing the truth or what _he_ wants us to see?’

‘Of course he wishes to show us ,’ Vanimöré murmured. ‘He is trying to explain his actions, to validate himself. But I observed. We saw what was real. The beginning before the beginning.’ He did not, then, tell Edenel of Eru’s last words to him, but he said, ‘Manwë, Námo and Varda, the worse offenders of the Valar, were his creations, too. I spoke to him,’ he added grimly. ‘I had to, and it was easier, within the dream.’ And not easy at all. ‘He admitted they were his, but possessed the flaws within him that were Melkor. Perhaps he did not realise he even possessed those flaws until he saw them reflected back at him from their eyes.’

‘Yes, there seemed only joy and discovery — and love, in his creations,’ Edenel agreed, but his splendid white eyes were somber.

‘Oh, there was love,’ Vanimöré said. ‘Too much love, the love that I have always vowed I will not lay on those dear to me: to protect from every ill wind, to keep them frozen and grateful forever, never living, never learning. But not for the Valarin Triad. They knew it, and hated it. And _they_ learned. They left that world and went away to plot and plan, nursing their jealousy and hatred.’

‘And what then? Did he tell thee?’

‘No. We will witness it,’ Vanimöré told him. ‘So far we have seen little. And there are too many questions. But we have seen the truth thus far. First came Fëanor, the Flame Imperishable made manifest, then Maglor, the Great Song, then Fingolfin, the eternal warrior and High King, steel and starlight, Finarfin the promise of new hope. Glorfindel, the Summer —‘

Edenel turned to him. ‘And the woman,’ he said softly. ‘Created out of the autumn sunset and the light of the harvest moon rising...’

‘Yes,’ Vanimöré said. ‘It was Claire. Or at least the first woman who bore her likeness. The first Claire, as it were. Which worries me more than a little.’ He wondered if she had dreamed it too, somewhere on some other world.

‘Yes. It worries me too.’

‘Because Elgalad-Eru does not _forget._ ’ Vanimöré placed the coffee cup on the table, streepled his fingers under his chin. ‘In Middle-earth —‘ (When he spoke of it he always referred to the one that was gone). ‘Elgalad became close to certain people. I am sure we have not seen all of them in the dream, not yet. But in Mirkwood: Legolas and thyself and Bainalph.’ He paused, remembering Bainalph and how, in that old universe, he had died and been reborn and how Elgalad had wept. He also recalled how a brief flash of fear had crossed Bainalph’s face when he looked at Elgalad. Bainalph had just been reembodied and perhaps had seen something...He placed the thought aside for the moment.  
‘In Imladris,’ he said. ‘He grew close to Tindómion and Glorfindel, particularly. And later, in New Cuiviénen...’ It hurt to think back to those times, what he thought of in his mind, as the _real_ universe where he had suffered and hurt, and hated, and loved, but had been able to truly _live_. Edenel laid a hand on his arm and Vanimöré saw the same timeless desolation in those white eyes.  
‘In New Cuiviénen,’ Vanimöré continued, ‘Fëanor seduced Elgalad, knowing that it would make me furious enough to fight my way back into the world. And after, there was Maglor. But was it truly them that instigated it, or him?’

‘Fëanor is certainly intelligent enough to know what might bring thee back.’ Edenel said levelly. ‘But yes, it bears thinking about. In Mirkwood, Elgalad was one of the only ones from outside our enclave to be welcomed among the _Ithiledhil_ , apart from Bainalph. Culina,’ he added slowly. ‘Was very fond of Elgalad.’

Culina, foremother of Claire, who had even looked like her before the rose-gold hair turned white as her eyes in Utumno.

‘I have to see more,’ Vanimöré said to himself. ‘And then I have to act. Because,’ he smiled bitterly at Edenel. ’As thou must have seen. I was not there. Not in the beginning.’

Maglor came out of the patio doors, holding his own coffee. He had accepted the invitation to stay, naturally, with his son coming here. The thick sheaves of hair were drawn over one shoulder in a loose braid. He looked from one to the other.  
‘What was it?’ His eyes were molten, fierce. ‘That dream?’

‘An older universe,’ Edenel said. ‘The one that Eru destroyed.’ _I told him almost everything._ Vanimöré gave a bare nod of acknowledgement.

Maglor strode across to them, eyes never leaving Vanimöré’s.  
‘Edenel told me thou art Eru’s opposite and equal.’

Vanimöré shrugged. ‘We have the same degree of power, yes.’

‘And we were cursed by him, to be reborn as Elves, with less power than the Valar...who then cursed us in their turn.’

‘It would seem so.’

‘So what happens after we are...’Maglor’s mouth quirked a little. ‘Reinstated?’

‘Eru seeks to gather those he loved, or so I believe.’ Vanimöré hesitated, then set his jaw. ‘In the interests of full disclosure, Maglor, I will tell thee of Elgalad.’ The taste of honey on his tongue melting into the bitterness of myrrh. A lover one reached out to touch only for them to crumble into dust. Illusion.

He kept the recounting as brief as possible, his voice emotionless. Tendrils of sea-mist advanced like wraiths across the gardens, and Vanimöré remembered the houseless dead coming out of the ocean to Aman.

Even before he finished, he was reaching for the car keys in his pocket and when he came to the end, said, ‘Shall we drive out for breakfast? Thy son, Maglor will be here around noon, according to Coldagnir. There is time.’

The others said nothing as he locked up, set the security. Vanimöré drove quietly through the mist, the Bentley hugging the road. Ten miles or so on, he pulled in at a good pub that served meals. There was no-one else in the dining area and they ordered, sitting back with coffee.

Maglor said, ‘There are no adequate words, Vanimöré.’

‘There is a sufficiency,’ Vanimöré responded tartly, ash in his mouth, gall on his tongue. ‘I was a purblind fool. By the time I found Elgalad, was present at his birth in fact, I was a plum ripe enough to fall at the slightest touch. And I did, right at his feet.’ He stopped, teeth set together. ‘I salute his cleverness, however. He knew I would not deny a helpless and motherless babe my aid. He knew that when I was younger, I had imagined having children.’ His smile went awry. ‘Not really, of course. I dreamed of a different world where I was free and what might happen. But to have a child under Sauron would be to give him another slave.’

Edenel reached across to grip his wrist. ‘I understand.’

‘I know. But the thought was there, the last rags of a fading dream. Raising a child in freedom.’ He spread his hands. ‘And I...for Eru born into that world, I would have been the most difficult of all to approach. Had he chosen to be born among Men, the Easterling tribes Sauron sent me out to, there was little chance he would have been close to me, or not for long. And I did not go among Elves. So he chose the place, the time, even his parents.’

Edenel stared down at the table. ‘Yes. That was indeed clever.’

‘Yet my father was long...’ Maglor could not bring himself to say ‘dead’. ‘And I saw him, in the dream.’ The reflection in his eyes was as if fire burned, a great conflagration far away. A wildfire that would burns worlds to a cinder.

‘Eru knew what I would ultimately do; he was there to ensure I did it: push through the barriers I had erected against Sauron’s blood and power and use it to reclaim a Silmaril from the deeps of the Great Sea.’ Vanimöré drank coffee without tasting it. ‘And then the Silmaril would open the way to the Void and bring back all those condemned.’

‘He _had_ gathered us all,’ Edenel murmured puzzledly. ‘And yet he brought down Dagor Dagorath.’

‘To begin everything again,’ Vanimöré said coldly. ‘To trap the souls who died within the Monument and, after he had created a new universe, to release them. I prevented him. I would not join with him, would not forgive him. And _I_ claimed the Monument. It seemed fitting enough.’

Edenel looked at him. ‘It is not fitting, Vanimöré.’

‘Then where?’ Harshly. ‘This world? Any of these, where I cannot even be _myself_?’ He saw Maglor nod.

‘He told thee?’ Edenel leaned forward, passed a finger down Vanimórë’s burning face. His flesh conferred the soothing coolness of fresh snow. ‘He told thee that was his intention?’

Vanimöré shook his head. ‘I never gave him the chance. He spun me a tale about wanting to reclaim _Melkor._ Or perhaps it was not a tale,’ he mused. ‘Perhaps he truly does need to be everything he was, both the good and the bad.’ There was a terrible weight in his chest, a scream of loss that could never be voiced. ‘Sauron told me...he saw it first. At the beginning of _my_ universe, ours.’ He glanced at Edenel. ‘I battled Eru, and ripped Melkor from him, but I also absorbed some of Melkor. it is an oversimplification, but let it stand for now. And Eru took something from me, my idea of innocence, something I possessed and lost without knowing it had even gone from me.’ Something that died as he snapped his sister’s neck. ‘That is what I loved in Elgalad, a kind of purity that nothing could ever tarnish. It was so different to what I was. What, in effect, Elgalad and Sauron both told me was that I was the best part of _Melkor._ Which is not a compliment.’

Maglor watched him, glamoured now, but Vanimöré never saw the glamour, he always saw what lay beneath. Maglor’s expression was intent, troubled. He said, after a moment: ‘In Valinor, Melkor was...’

‘In Utumno,’ Edenel rescued him. ‘He was terrible, but magnificent. But he lacked the part of him that _thou_ had taken,’ To Vanimöré. ‘With that, I think no-one could have withstood him, or even wanted to. What was left was...was Melkor. Eru may lie, and Sauron most certainly does, but in this they were right: Thou art what Melkor _might have been._ ’

Vanimöré sat back, mockery in his lips, but it died in the furnace of pain. ‘What might have been,’ he said. ‘Is dust gone into the wind.’ The hot, scouring winds that whipped the Monument.

They ceased talking as their breakfast was brought although none of them did justice to it, and Vanimöré apologised for their lack of appetite, leaving a generous tip. As they left, with the sun beginning to burn off the murk, he turned to Maglor.  
‘Thou art ready?’

He felt the frisson strike Maglor from head to heels. ‘I am ready.’ Then: ‘Oh, gods, more than ready.’

Vanimöré looked at him and smiled. ‘We need to discuss this with thy son also, and so my story can wait a little.’

OooOooO

Vanimöré had ice-cold champagne ready, which he thought was appropriate. Maglor prowled the house, impatient as a lover waiting for an assignation. Near noon he came into the study where Vanimöré was working.

‘Can I help thee?’ Vanimöré enjoyed the sight of him always, in any world but he missed the tension, the passionate hatred directed at him, the crackle in the air, like walking through a lightning storm. It seemed he could not settle for anything less than complicated, a knife-edge between desire and hate. Hardly a surprising position to adopt, he supposed, with his upbringing and the veritable knot of complexity that was his own relationship with Sauron. Nothing could ever be simple. And he told himself that this was not the Maglor he had known. That one had gone.

_And we can never go back._

A strange smile. ‘No, it is just...a creator whom one can speak to is rather...novel.’

Vanimöré folded his hands. ‘I was born and I lived; that is enough to level anyone, Maglor. Save perhaps Eru.’

‘Edenel told me that thou didst kill the reborn version of thee, in this world.’

 _Ah._  
‘It was a pleasure.’

Maglor came closer, like a lion circling a prey he was not sure would lash out. ‘Thou knowest what he did?’

‘Yes.’

‘Why art thou so different to him?’

Vanimórë swallowed fury. ‘All the universes I created are similar to the one that was gone, Maglor. The Vanimöré in this world differed in only two ways from myself: he followed his father, wishing to please him and be loved. And he did not become a god.’

‘And thou didst release me. That is another way in which thou art different to he.’

‘I served my father unwillingly,’ he replied shortly. He had no intention, none, of relating what had passed between himself and Maglor in the old universe. It would serve no purpose but to antagonise him and Maglor did not fully trust him now. Why should he? First let Vanimöré complete his mission here, then it would not matter.

Maglor opened his mouth to speak, then his head went up like a hound’s at the call of a hunting horn.

‘He is here,’ Vanimöré said. ‘Come.’

Coldagnir emerged from the barrow first, but Tindómion was right on his heels and had shed his glamour. The likeness between father and son was so vivid, Vanimórë closed his eyes for a moment to capture the beauty of it, hold it against his heart for the times of emptiness. Tindómion’s eyes fell on his father and blazed like light. He did not hesitate, not for one moment, and then Maglor too was walking toward him, then running, until the two of them came together, black and bronze hair flowing one into the other. Vanimöré, with Coldagnir and Edenel, turned, went back into the house.

OooOooO

‘He decided a night spent in preparation and reflection would be wise,’ Coldagnir smiled a little. ‘He has waited long for this, after all. And so we spoke all night. There was a standing stone a couple of miles away. No-one saw us,’ he added. ‘He would have killed me if he could, at least at first.’ But his eyes danced in appreciation.

Vanimöré laid a hand on his shoulder. ‘I did not think it would be easy, but he came.’

‘Only death would keep a Fëanorion from his blood. And I am not certain about that.’

‘Howard,’ Vanimöré remarked as his phone rang. He put it on speaker, heard Heavy breathing.  
‘Howard, it’s no good, I simply don’t think of you in that way.’

‘Steele!’ There was a crashing sound as if something fell to the floor, a curse. ‘I don’t even know where to begin. You are not going to believe this.’

Vanimórë through briefly of dead universes. ‘Try me,’ he suggested. ‘And no, I will probably not believe the corpses you had removed from Rochford have got up and walked off. I cut their hearts out — just to be on the safe side.’

There was another hard-breathing pause. ‘I know,’ Howard said at last, his voice tight. ‘And no, that didn’t happen. But it does, in a way, concern Leon.’

Vanimöré felt his sinews harden. ‘Go on.’

‘Leon checked out, as I said. His parents...okay, they were known to be a bit eccentric, lived and breathed their racehorses, but they’re not the only ones like that. And extremely rich of course. I went out to their place once, a damn great gaunt barracks like something out of a Gothic horror film. They only live in a few rooms.’

Vanimöré was silent, remembering Leon mentioning it; he had even felt sorry for the boy, living a solitary almost-unwanted life there. Coldagnir and Edenel were looking intently at the phone.

‘Anyhow, I had to contact the St. Clouds.’ Then, like a pot coming to the boil and spilling over, Howard exploded: ‘Steele, do you never watch the news?’

‘No,’ Vanimöré said, indifferently, although his scalp prickled. ‘I have other ways of following the news, Howard.’

‘Well, I bloody well wish you had, Steele. His parents were in Australia and I couldn’t contact them because they’re _dead_.’

‘How?’ Vanimöré snapped.

‘Road accident, a bad one. Ten cars involved. That was two days ago, and irrelevant to what I’m going to tell you.’

A woman had called him, he said, a woman who should not have had his number.  
‘She said that Monica St. Cloud opted for a home-birth, twenty four-odd years ago, and she was rich enough to have a private midwife. My mysterious caller.’

Vanimöré said nothing. Ice spread upward from the pit of his stomach.

‘Okay, Steele, so far so not-strange, but now it gets weird. Bear with me a moment. The St. Clouds, like a lot of the old nobility, have a legend attached to them. It regards the birth of twins to the family, twin boys specifically.’ The fine hairs on the back of Vanimöré’s neck rose. ‘It happened back in the 12th century, and they, the heirs, died violently, the line passing to cousins; it happened in the 15th Century, where again, the sons died, and in the 17th, where they were killed in the Civil War, and in the early 20th century, when both were killed in the Somme. No matter what, twins presaged death or at least the name passing to some lesser cousins. Kept the blood fresh if you ask me. _Anyhow_ ,’ Howard cleared his throat. ‘There are _no_ cousins now to inherit, Steele. It’s not a fertile line at all, seems never to have been. There was only Roland, and if he fathered any kids, they have yet to come forward. Leon was — ostensibly — the last of the St. Clouds.’

‘Go on,‘Vanimöré said quietly.

‘Except he wasn’t. Isn’t. Steele, this so-called midwife was present at the birth of _two sons._ Maybe in older times one of them would have been quietly smothered, but she was instructed to take one of the children away. Which she did. Maybe the St. Cloud’s hoped to circumvent the curse in that way.’ He paused. ‘Of course this woman is no midwife, I have no idea who the hell she is but _you_ might. The baby was registered in her name and raised as her own. She’s quite willing for him to undergo DNA testing to prove he is a St. Cloud.’

Vanimöré broke across him: ‘What is the woman’s name?’

‘Vanya,’ Howard said. ‘Vanya Tierra.’ Vanimöré hardly heard his next words. _Tierra_ , Terra, Earth.  
‘Steele, you need to meet her. Both of them.’

‘I am afraid I will.’ He closed his eyes. ‘Does the boy know?’

‘She said he does. He’s just returning from Somalia; he’s been with Voluntary Service Overseas since he left university. Ms. Tierra has money, it seems.’

‘Of course she does. Very well. You say you have the St. Cloud place locked down? Then I will meet them there. In two days. I assume the staff are still there, as they have horses?’

‘Yes. There’s a daily who comes in to clean, No other staff in the house, a gardener and a good twenty employed at their stables.’

‘Keep them on, tell them they’ll be paid.’

‘Very well.’ Howard’s voice turned crisp. ‘Two days, then, Steele.’

There was silence save the ticking of the clock, then Vanimöré broke it, slamming his hand down on the table.  
‘Vanya,’ he whispered. ‘I have not seen her since before.’ He raised his head. ‘I did not want pity from one whom I failed so badly.’

‘Why would she do it?’ Edenel asked simply.

Vanimöré shook his head. ‘I know not. I will ask her.’ He looked at them both. ‘I need to spend time with Maglor and Tindómion, prepare them for what will happen in Valinor. But the two of thee know as well as I. Wouldst thou stay here with them, that is, if they want to? Or take them back to Maglor’s home.’

‘We are coming with thee,’ Coldagnir said.

‘Of course we are,’ Edenel agreed.

‘There is not danger in this. My sister’s reasons may be convoluted, but she would mean no ill.’

‘Nevertheless, Vanimöré, we do not know her. We are coming. And father and son,’ Edenel nodded toward the window. ‘Will have a great deal to catch up on.’

Vanimöré smiled faintly. ‘I thank thee, then.’

‘How would she know?’ Coldagnir asked. ‘To put herself in that place, at that time, with the credentials needed?’

‘Vanya’s power is immense, and disseminated through every universe. It would be nothing at all for her to learn of the rebirth of Sauron’s children as Mortals, and to arrange matters. Perhaps she just wanted to save one of them from Sauron.’ His mouth twisted on the next words. ‘She always loved me. I never knew why.’

‘And what wilt thou do?’ Edenel asked after a long moment, gently.

‘Will I kill him?’ Vanimöré smiled mirthlessly. ‘Perhaps.’ He paced. ‘Sauron knew. He _must_ Have known. But Vanya could easily hide this boy from him. Why would she come into the open with him now?’

‘Only she can answer that question,’ Coldagnir said reasonably. ‘And she will, I am sure. To thee.’

Vanimöré nodded grimly. ‘Voluntary Service Overseas.’ And he laughed. ‘How laudable. The cunning little bastard. And far too clever for thine own good, I warrant.’

OooOooO

An hour passed before Maglor and Tindómion entered the kitchen. Vanimöré looked at their bright, triumphant faces, glowing like lovers after a night of passion and some of the pain in his heart was salved. He brought out a magnum of champagne, poured.

‘I thank thee,’ Maglor said as he raised the glass in a toast. ‘And I mean that from my heart. To a new world.’

‘A new world,’ Vanimöré echoed. And it would be. The five of them drank, he replenished the glasses and drew out chairs. Father and son sat shoulder to shoulder, occasionally turning their heads to look at one another as if they might vanish unless constantly watched.

‘Thou wilt want to know how the Valar are to be defeated,’ Vanimöré said, although he was already looking past that. Dreamer within the dream. ‘That will be nothing at all. My job, if thou wilt, is to render them impotent while the Halls of Mandos are unlocked. When the dead are released I will unleash the fires of Fos Almir, as I have done before, and they will ascend in its flame.’

The Fëanorions gazed at him with the faces of warriors about to go into battle.  
‘Promise me they are there.’ Tindómion’s voice thrummed with his father’s same power. Resonant as the notes left by a great harp. ‘The dead.’

‘They are there, I promise it.’

Tindómion looked at his father. ‘It has been so long.’

‘To disarm the Valar I must needs go to the ‘Outside,’ ultimately.’ Vanimöré looked from one to the other. ‘And come down on them in all my power. But Edenel and Coldagnir will remain with thee. It will be, I imagine, more satisfying for thee to enter Valinor holding two of thy father’s gems.’

Light burned up under their skin as if a Silmaril were set inside their skulls. Edenel laid his hand over Maglor’s. Smiled at Tindómion.

‘Yes,’ Maglor said through his white teeth. ‘Ah, _yes_ ’

‘What of Eru?’ Tindómion asked, brow crooked a little.

‘In the fullness of our power, he and I cannot battle one another lest we destroy everything there is. Mutually assured destruction, one might say, and we would take everything with us. Everything. Besides, he has no love for the Valar. Thou didst dream also, yes?’ Vanimöré raised his brows. Tindómion nodded.  
‘Yes. And I have dreamed before. I thought it was of Valinor, but now I am not sure.’

‘Something that existed before Valinor,’ Coldagnir murmured, fire-burnt eyes flicking to Edenel who’s lips turned up. Vanimöré caught the flying edge of their thoughts: _Brother. Enemy-lover. Winter-Summer. Death-sleep-rebirth._

‘And in the end, something we must deal with,’ Vanimöré said. ‘But one battle at a time. And I am afraid there is something _I_ have to deal with first. The Vanimöré I slew at Rochford Hall was one of twins. The other,’ As Maglor stiffened in his seat, ‘was taken away as a child. By my sister who is known by many names. To me, she is Vanya, to this world she is the Great Mother Goddess.’

Maglor’s face stilled. ‘Twins...but why would she...?

‘I am meeting her — both of them — in two days,’ Vanimöré told him. ‘Probably she did what she did to save one of them. This one is not like the one I killed. Raised by Vanya, he could not be.’ Or would his blood tell? Had it already? He would find out. ‘But Sauron will know of him. I will assess the situation. And, of course, we have to find the second Silmaril.’

Father and son’s heads turned in mutual bonding. ‘The one we have is the Silmaril of the Earth,’ Maglor stated. ‘I would know the one I held — attempted to hold. This one is that which Maedhros...’ The word crumbled into memory, and Vanimorë leapt into the ruins: ‘Thy brother’s soul, everything that made Maedhros _himself_ is waiting, Maglor.’ He knew what thoughts tormented Maglor’s mind: a scorched skeleton deep in the earth, all beauty, all bravery, reduced to the futility of mortality, the Doom that lay like an iron bar across their shoulders. Maglor’s eyes jerked up to his.  
‘And thy father, Fingolfin, all thy brothers, cousins. All those thou hast loved. They will be as glorious — and more — as thou didst remember them.’

‘Truth?’ Tindómion demanded, fierce, and Vanimore smiled at him.  
‘Truth. let me show thee.’

For this, he did not need all his power, only the power of memory.

The room darkened as if midnight fell upon it, and out if it grew the vision of his mind: of the Noldor entering Aman from New Cuiviénen across a bridge woven of the sky and Power. Not a homecoming, but a declaration of war. And then, racing into battle, into a wall of flame, transfigured, transformed from Elf to Godhood in a conflagration. Fëanor’s Fireflower banner and Fingolfin’s Starfire blazed with light, tendrils of fire racing over armour, plumed helms, ran like water down drawn swords, turned their eyes molten. And there too was Maglor and Tindómion, Gil-galad, Glorfindel, Finrod, all the loved and lost, all of them shaming the most brilliant of stars.

‘Truth,’ Vanimöré said and his voice rang with the glory of what _had been._ That moment, frozen in his mind like the rarest of jewels. Something to remember when the winds of the Outside grew too lonely. Sometimes it seemed as if memory were all he had.

The light came back, but it seemed dim after that fire. The Fëanorions and the others glowed like lamps in an autumn dusk. Tindómion put his head in his hands, Maglor leaned against him. But tears there were none, not for that transcendence.

‘When?’ Maglor shot the one word.

‘As soon as I have dealt with this other matter.’

Maglor stared at him. ‘Thou wouldst truly kill him, someone who is, I suppose _thyself_?’

Vanimöré held the silver eyes. ‘Of course,’ he said lightly. ‘There is no purpose to them, Maglor. No purpose to any version of me. They are dross.’

OooOooO

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _The Lotus Flower grows in the deep mud, far away from the sun. But, sooner or later, the Lotus reaches the light becoming the most beautiful flower ever.  
>  The Lotus flower is regarded in many different cultures, especially in eastern religions, as a symbol of purity, enlightenment, self-regeneration and rebirth. Its characteristics are a perfect analogy for the human condition: even when its roots are in the dirtiest waters, the Lotus produces the most beautiful flower._  
>   
> https://www.binghamton.edu/iaad/outreach/Meaning%20of%20the%20Lotus%20Flower%20-%20%20handout.pdf


	4. ~ Clouds ~

  
  
  
  


**~ Clouds ~**

~ Midsummer stars, a sapphire banner spread across the sky. Stars of silver, of diamond, set in rippling silk, snapping in aetheric winds, or the presentiment of war, tearing, tattered ends fraying into crimson. A fire...or spilled blood...

...Fëanor working at a forge; glowing bronze, silver-steel melting through it, a damascened weapon. Weapon and star-field born as gods, born at the same moment and forever bound, forever entwined — to one another, to the Fire, to the Stars — to Eru.

Fëanor folding copper, jet, silver, iron, granite, embellishing, pouring power and love into six creations that would, in another universe be born as his sons.

Fingolfin working in the same forge, spinning a length of his ebony hair into finest metal with one kiss of a god’s power, to create the one called Fingon. Aredhel, born out of the bruised clouds of an autumn storm, rent by silver flashes, the confetti of wild, whirling leaves.

Spring sun turned a beech-forest into glowing green, the stream beneath it limpid, and Bainalph rose out of the light, the colour, apple-blossom lovely. Then the sun rose, struck a battery of glittering light over the first frost; the air was sharp and bright as champagne, and out of it walked Finrod, the gold and the silver, warmth and strength. The woman who would be his sister came after, from the energy of the lionesses of the savannah, strong even when at rest, perilous when roused to the hunt.

There came Míriel in silvery beauty, woven out of a tapestry made of light, Indis from a cup of sunlight in a rose forged of _mithril_. After the first, an unfolding of creation, but not a profusion, not many. These were the ones who, for better or worse, had been names of the Elder Days. Elu Thingol, Melian, Ingwë, Beleg, Túrin...and now Vanimöré knew why Túrin, called Adanedhel by the Elves of Nargothrond, had so loved the Eldar, why his life and doom was linked so close with Beleg’s...

In a far-off place from this a volcano erupted, gouting lava, and Mairon came into existence, with the secrets of fire and metals and minerals in his eyes.

Eönwë exploded out of the winter winds, holding the fierceness of the storm in his eyes. Olórin rose from the first blaze struck on a winter hearth. Ecthelion came from crystal moonlight sliding down knife-edged obsidian. It was an explosion of creation, of wonder, an unfolding, limitless glory.

Vanimöré watched Eru among his people, saw the vast palaces rise, a meld of power and sheer skill, breathtaking as anything in the Timeless Halls, which, of course, Eru had remembered (with who-knew how much pain?) when he created them: echoes of a universe long gone, echoes of this world where he had loved and lived. Airy towers flirted with the upper winds, bridges delicate as woven ice spanned entire oceans, forests changed colour under the bright glitter of a million windows. Colonnades of metal and precious stone upheld roofs as large as cities where gardens rolled, spilling meandering rivers in mighty cataracts. Streams threaded, delicate as glass, though hallways whose floors were set with gems. Every palace was linked, but all were separate, and the banners of the Gods snapped from the tallest towers where clouds streamed past and where the gods reached up their hands to touch the stars and weave its light into jewellery for their hair.  
  
Vanimöré’s mind jerked abruptly, slid to a palace like this, but unending, eternal. Immeasurably beautiful, almost incomprehensible. A figure, a woman, walked it from chamber to hall, sometimes pausing to eat or drink, to sleep, face upturned to the wonders around them, wonders that never ceased, that one could never reach the end of. Or she ran, untiring, hair and robes shimmering behind them, poised against a backdrop of gems, of stars, of falling water, of rooms made out of jewels, immense as a forest, lakes where water-lilies floated, woods where fireflies glowed. A spark of light glinted on her hair.  
  
_Eternal Palace._  
  
Vanimöré woke with a gasp to the quiet room. His heart pounded as it had in the wormhole punishment cell in Angband, but there was not the same sense of suffocation, of claustrophobia; rather it was a feeling of...entrapment. For an instant, the dimness of the bedroom seemed to overlay that of the never-ending palace: a hallway scattered with a carpet of silver rose-petals, a tree with gems for fruit tall as Barad-dûr, a bed of lotus petals, the taste of wine like liquid jewels, like Light, drug of the gods, the glimpse of great wings, fading...His voice raised in cold, furious command: ‘Show thyself!’ Echoing, dying against walls of silver and crystal and silk...  
  
For a long time, he lay awake, but refused to rise, wanting the dream to come again, and when it did it was stealthily as a thief in the night; Vanimöré half-thought he was still awake...  
  
How long passed on that first world: Ten thousand years, half a million, more? Starlight crowned the planet in beauty, the sun spread melted gold, seasons turned. The gods learned and grew. Sometimes together, sometimes alone, they delved into the nature of life and reality — and what lay beyond.  
  
Yet the shadows were gathering; far-off as yet, but long and black where they massed. Vanimöré witnessed what Eru had told him: Manwë, Varda, Námo, created out of his flaws, for one cannot hide them for long and in the act of creation there can be no lie or concealment. Vanimöré, observing, cold, aloof, thought bitterly of his own created universes, his grief and darkness affecting all of them. Creation was like the convulsion of an orgasm; there could be no barriers. The truth would always reveal itself. Mercilessly.  
  
For a short time he pitied the future Valar. They could not help what they were any more than Fëanor could help what he was, or any of the others Eru truly loved, but they refused friendship from the beginning, felt only jealousy, that curdled into implacable hate. There was no self-aware being in any universe that could not change themselves but, like spoilt children who cannot have the toy they have set their heart on sulk and stamp and want nothing else, they repudiated any other outstretched hand and fulfilled all the flaws they might have overcome, becoming in truth what Eru knew them to be.  
  
And yet, Eru himself did not drive them away. No-one did. They wanted Eru’s love but they also wanted him to turn away from the others, for him to love only _them_. There was the grasping acquisitiveness that flourished in Melkor — who, if he could not have everything, would have the nothingness of destruction — the jealousy and despite. They hated the love between Eru and his chosen gods, the joyous abandon of discovered sex. And sex between gods was nothing like that between humans. And so they called it twisted, wrong, a sin, an offence against them, as gods. Because they were not part of it.  
  
Mairon was different from the first, seemed genuinely not to care that Eru’s love was so firmly fixed on the favoured ones. He went his own way, clever, watchful, quiet, absorbed in learning, experimenting. He was not, however, entirely a loner, there was a charisma about him that attracted others and he himself was fascinated by Fëanor. Eonwë, too, became a companion as did, at times, Finrod. In one glimpse, Vanimöré saw them laughing together, which almost shocked him out of the dream, and then they sang, and because gods can speak their thoughts into being, their song created... _Bonds forged in this ancient universe._ ..  
..Which had mutated into the song-duel between Sauron and Finrod in Tol-in-Gaurhoth.  
  
The links were everywhere: between Fëanor and Fingolfin and Maglor, Edenel, Coldagnir, Gil-galad and Tindómion — and between them and Andúnië, the woman of the autumn moon. Maedhros and Fingon, the bonds between the brothers and cousins of the future. The ties wove between all of them, weaving them into what Vanimöré mentally referred to as a a super-entity. He could see the webwork of emotions: appreciation, love, loyalty that bound them together, a bond that not even the destruction of the universe could kill. It had flowered again, in Valinor, in Middle-earth and beyond, and none of them knew why, only that it was there, strong as a steel hawser that anchors a ship to the shore.  
  
Vanimöré wanted to weep. This was what he had yearned for, this connection and a place to live where he could be himself, as Eru was himself, a world of gods. Gifting the Timeless Halls to the ascended Elves had been the closest he had come, and all-too brief.  
  
Words he had read in some book, in some world, flickered through his mind: _This was the noontide of the Blessed Realm..._  
  
The noontide. Before evening came, and autumn, and the long winter’s night...  
  
Andúnië’s palace: warm and glowing, unearthly, yet with touches the Claire James of a future universe would recognise and love: An untamed northern sea hissing against a long, pale beach where she walked with the waves kissing her toes; terraces and halls of a faded grey stone that never aged, cool hills rising in the cloud-swept distance. And then a change: a sea inlet, shallow and translucent, warmth and the scent of herbs and wine, long evening shadows, canals between mossy-stepped palaces, and the everlasting, numinous light-shift of reflected water against stone. Nooks in rooms where comforting fires fed on nothing when the nights pressed in, harrying blown leaves across the windows with a pebble-dash of rain. No god felt the cold, or even need for shelter; it was, Vanimöré understood, an aesthetic that grew out of their minds, ideas they were drawn to, a continuing exploration of themselves, the fullest flowering of their minds and ideas. Andúnië would place slim vases of time-frozen beech leaves, caught at their richest bronze, garlands of kiss-red berries, frost-furred pine boughs. Lady of the sunset, of the ripe harvest moon, the first liminal mists, the sweet-sharp scent of autumn as one breathed the air...  
Scrolls of poetry wrote themselves with the impress of her mind and were gathered and bound. Cups of hot, sweet fragrant tea, slim glasses of rich spirit were shared with music and conversation or in a deep and comfortable silence after a night of love...  
  
First moon of autumn, a gentle mist on the lands about, veiling Andúnië’s palace in gossamer so that it seemed to float above the earth, laying on the lagoon, floating among the canals. She walked a terrace far above her luminous land, emerald robes whispering as the wind rose, herald of autumn. Andúnië, Culina, Claire. Her hair twisted and coiled, hammered metal, as she lifted her face to the wind.  
  
A dream within a dream. Beauty beyond measure, power beyond measure. Safe.  
  
And the shadows gathering.  
  
Eru alighted on Andúnië’s terrace, great wings exploding into vanishing fireflies, a glitter of priceless gems.  
  
From somewhere outside the dream, Vanimöré set himself against the war that waged in his breast whenever he saw Eru. It tore him apart, the wounds bloodless, voiceless, unhealed and unsealing. Glass splinters lodged under unmarked skin, and the agony could be awakened at the gentlest touch.  
  
He was not the same as Elgalad; there was none of the diffidence, the disarming uncertainty, but there was more than a hint of the innocence, the purity here, in this universe, in this world. How not? Eru had come into being here, was still blazing with the glory of it, the wonder, the _love_. He delighted in his creations, what they did, what they shared, their magnificence. There was no calculation in it, rather a childlike, exuberant joy.  
  
_But that is not life, Eru. Thou didst dismiss from thy mind the defective ones, those thou couldst not love, and forgot them. Hoped they would simply go away, But nothing ever truly goes away._  
_And they hated thee for that easy dismissal and doubly hated the ones thou didst love._  
  
  
  
He wrenched himself out of the dream, found himself walking down to the beach, into the cold pull-and-release of the waters. He remembered how he had plunged into the ocean, shifting shape, accepting, after thousands of years, the talents of his father’s blood, to bring up a Silmaril from the deeps and forge a path into Valinor. He thought of Claire walking into this sea in another world, sleepwalking, dreaming and he wondered, with a touch of cold, what Eru would have done had he, Vanimöré, not drawn her out. Something, he was certain. He wondered too, if Elgalad had followed him through the Portal to that world, that Summerland, and watched.  
Possibly. Probably.  
  
When he emerged from the water, a brightening pallor smudged the east and the birds were waking to proclaim dawn. Stars showered into the western sea.  
  
Maglor, standing on the sand, was a tall, luminous shape, eyes backlit silver. For a moment, he said nothing, then:  
‘The woman of the sunset. I know her. I have never met her, but I know her.’  
  
‘In other worlds, yes.’  
  
‘Andúnië,’ Maglor said slowly. ‘But that is not the woman I know.’  
  
‘Is and is not,’ Vanimöré said dryly. ‘Andúnië was reborn as a Mortal woman.’  
  
He saw Maglor’s precise brows frown. ‘Punishment?’  
  
‘It was all punishment, in a way.’ Vanimöré wrung out his hair, started the walk back onto the promontory. ‘I know her too. Claire James, she is called, in other worlds.’  
  
‘Claire,’ Maglor rolled the name. ‘Claire James.’ His hand closed on Vanimöré’s arm. ‘Yes.’  
  
Vanimöré paused and smiled. ‘In different worlds, in different ways, thou doth love her. But the Mirror shard may show thee more.’  
  
They climbed to the lawn, the grass cool under Vanimöré’s bare feet. Maglor’s hand had dropped away, but now it returned to his arm.  
‘We will come with thee, Tindómion and I,’ he said, and Vanimöré paused.  
‘To Norfolk?’ He regarded Maglor’s face in the dimness. ‘If my sister protects this twin of Leon, this reborn Vanimöré, she will not allow thee to kill him.’  
  
‘Not for that reason,’ Maglor refuted. ‘I would wish to kill that one, the one I met _then_. To take revenge on one born as human?’ His mouth curled in distaste. ‘There is little honour in that and even less satisfaction.’  
  
‘Then thou art far more honourable than I,’ Vanimöré told him with an underscore of self-mockery. ‘Because I would have no compunction. But why then, wouldst thou come?’  
  
‘I have spoken with Edenel,’ Maglor said solemnly. ‘Thou hast a great deal more honour than thou doth give thyself credit for. While I have reservations, as does my son, about Coldagnir, it is not lost on us that two gods, for they are nothing less, trust and follow thee.’  
  
‘We are survivors of a dead universe, Maglor. That gives us a great deal in common.’ He moved on. ‘But come, if that is thy wish.’  
  
He went upstairs to shower, washing the salt from hair and skin. When he came down into the kitchen the others were all up and dressed. Vanimöré joined them at the long table with his coffee.  
  
‘I wonder,’ Edenel said. ‘If we lost the greater part of ourselves when that ancient universe was destroyed.’  
  
‘Not everything.’ Vanimöré smiled at him. ‘If anything, thou didst regain all that was taken from thee, even before Fos Almir. Most of thee did.’  
  
Coldagnir, his face opal-gleaming under the flood of scarlet hair, said, ‘He hid me when I elected to go to Utumno. He knew what would happen. He let me go.’  
  
Vanimöré bit down on fury. ‘Yes. Punishment.’ Although he had witnessed Elgalad’s gentleness and pity for Coldagnir. ‘And he regretted it.’  
  
‘Is regret enough?’ Edenel asked, dark lashes veiling white eyes, his mind echoing with the red-black shadows of Utumno and screams that were never answered save by greater horror. Coldagnir turned to him, settled a hand on his back.  
‘But thou wert there,’ to Vanimöré. ‘At the beginning.’  
  
Maglor and Tindómion listened, eyes burning, faces intent. They both flicked him one silver glance at Coldagnir’s words.  
  
‘I was there,’ Vanimöré agreed. ‘Perhaps all I could do in the end was set _my_ memories, my love into the new universe, to ensure thou wert born as Elves and capable of apotheosis. In other words Elves have been born as Mortal.’ He pushed aside his coffee cup in repugnance. ‘That should _never_ have happened. It is an aberration. But more than Eru meddled there: the Valar, other gods. And after my battle with Eru, I remember nothing.’ He lifted his head. ‘Until my birth, Still, even on the Outside, I do not know where I was.’ And that worried him. Where was he, those billions of years before his birth in Tol-in-Gaurhoth? He rose in the waiting, weighted silence. ‘And I was not — originally — in the ancient universe. I changed it, just as I changed the beginning of ours.’  
  
‘The wild card,’ Coldagnir said with a sound of satisfaction in his voice, in the curve of his mouth.  
  
Vanimöré’s smile was humourless. ‘Perhaps. If so, I will play that card for all it is worth.’  
  
Maglor’s eyes were fast on his. He met that silver gaze. ‘The only thing I did was to make thee, in any universe, as glorious, as beautiful as thou wert in the old, and in the ancient one long gone. Thou wert imprinted on my mind, all of thee, and could be nothing less.’ And no less doomed and damned. ‘But there is a flaw in me, a flaw in Eru. Which makes me wonder...’ The clock ticked. _Time was...Time is..._ ‘Who created Eru? Because there was a flaw in them, also. The dark vein in the universe.’  
  
  
  
  
  


OooOooO

~ It was a more-than six hour drive from Summerland to the Norfolk Coast. Edenel drove Maglor and Tindómion; Coldagnir travelled with Vanimöré. They broke the journey half-way, turning off the main route to find a quiet pub for lunch, where Vanimöré also changed his burned-out contact lenses for new ones which would last a few hours more. Later, they refilled the fuel tank. Vanimöré’s said nothing, during that drive, about his sister, or the twin she had taken away to protect. From Sauron, he wondered, or from me?

The locals, Howard had said, called the St. Cloud mansion ‘The Clouds’. Turning up the drive, there were fields, turf gallops for horses, a spread of benign meadows, but beyond lay salt-marsh blending with the mild sky, waving reed beds where birds piped. In winter, or with an autumn mist coming down, it would be a lonely, haunted place.  
They passed a huge stable block, barns, houses where the permanent staff lodged, then the drive turned again, toward the mansion.  
Vanimöré slowed the Bentley. In the passenger seat, Coldagnir slid off his sunglasses, brows raised. Edenel’s car drew up behind them and they got out.

It was a gaunt, unwelcoming-looking place. Tall, with thin windows, its heavy granite blocks, brought from the mountainous west two hundred and more years ago, showed the visitor a face that any lonely moorland prison would have envied. Even on this bright day, under a full May sun, there was a darkness, a coldness about it. The house...repelled.

Crows called, harsh and mocking from the trees. Vanimöré smiled wryly. It seemed oddly fitting that a certain version of himself should be born here. While the house did not have the graceful architecture of Finrod’s tower of Tol Sirion, his birthplace in Beleriand, the stone was the same.

Three cars were parked in front of the house: Howard’s, a 4 x 4, presumably for the people ‘locking the house down’ and, Vanimöré assumed, his sister’s: a sleek silver Rolls Royce convertible.

‘Very well,’ Vanimöré murmured. ‘Come.’

‘Shall we wait?’ Edenel came to his side.

‘There is nothing private in this, my dear.’ Nevertheless, the others held back as he trod up the shallow steps. The door swung open.

Vanya stood in the hall, alone. It was a high, flagged chamber, with a worn but beautiful Persian rug covering most of the floor, a few paintings hung on the walls, of race-winning horses over the generations.

Vanya’s appearance here was that of a tall, voluptuous blonde looking no more than thirty or so. She was superbly dressed in a cream trouser suit and silk blouse. Her fair hair was short, make-up perfect. A drift of Tom Ford’s ‘Sahara Noir’ dispelled the faintly damp, stony scent of the hall as she stepped forward and embraced Vanimöré, then moved back to look at him more closely. Her pink lips held a smile of welcome but it did not reach her eyes and Vanimöré could not, for a moment, interpret the expression in them until he realised it was simply pity. He flinched from it as a salt-dashed wound.

‘Vanya.’ He inclined his head, a half-bow. ‘I must say, I am surprised.’

‘Thou art not, my dear.’ She came alongside him, linked their arms. ‘And, sadly, neither am I. At anything thou hast done.’

A weight settled on him. He had wondered, at times, if the presence of his sister could alleviate the loneliness, the _always lacking_ , the hum of the dead wind about the Monument that he heard even now. And the answer was that no, it did not. Either she had moved beyond him, or he from her or they had both drifted apart from the other. The love was there, but there was no real point where their minds meshed. Perhaps there never had been. She had forgiven Sauron because, Vanimöré thought, she had never needed his approbation or love. He himself never entirely been able to sever the ties that bound them.

‘So thou didst know I would kill him,‘ he asked. ‘If knew whom he was?’

‘I knew it was certainly a possibility, if thou wert to come to this world. And so, I took precautions.’

He pulled away from her, turned. Her eyes, here, were a pale, glittering blue. He drove his question into them: ‘Why?’

‘Vanimöré.’ She lifted a hand to his face. Antique silver rings gleamed. ‘I cannot cross to the Outside. I am of the world, every world, and within the physical manifestation of the universe I have great power, but I cannot move beyond it.’ When he said nothing, she went on: ‘I know thou canst not be destroyed, but neither could I see thee, speak to thee. And no-one, not I or anyone else now alive, could have comforted thee.’ She shrugged a little. ‘Besides, _I_ do not wish to kill _any_ version of thee, or to see them die. Even a shadow one, born Mortal.’

‘And there we part,’ he said savagely. ‘Eru lied to me a thousand times, but I believe it when he said that in most realities I followed Sauron. Believe it? I know it. I have seen those realities. What was the _point_ of me?’ he demanded. ‘Nothing. I did nothing save lead armies and bow to him. Take him to victory in some worlds. Leon St. Cloud was one of those failures.’

Sadness moved into her eyes. ‘Thou couldst have saved him, even at the end, as thou didst Claire. Thinks’t thou he would not have followed _thee_ , then?’

‘And I would want that?’ He threw back his head and laughed, half-choking. ‘A weak-willed fool who would truckle to a stronger will? I think _not._ None of my _Khadakhir_ were fawning toad-eaters, Vanya.’

Her smile was wise, heart-wrenching. ‘He wanted immortality, my dear brother. Canst thou blame him for that?’

‘Vanya, I can blame _myself_ for anything.’ But he leaned down to kiss her cheek. ‘So,’ resignedly, ‘Tell me about this one.’

‘Marcus.’ She slanted him a long look. ‘I am the Mother who cannot bear children, but this one, I did raise.’

_Just as I raised Elgalad._

Her smile faded. She drew him toward a half-open door.  
‘Thou wilt not need the glamour,’ she told him. ‘Marcus sees through it. He always did, from a very young age.’

The room beyond was high-ceilinged, shabbily elegant; its furniture was old, but had once been exceedingly expensive; the long curtains were of faded silk. It was an almost comforting room: piles of magazines and books, once-plump and now ragged cushions on chairs and sofa, a fireplace where, in the winter, flames would leap and crackle.

There was one occupant. If Vanimöré had felt any guilt at killing Leon St. Cloud, it would have taken him by the throat then. He did not and it did not, though Marcus was as like to his twin as one penny to another. The same extraordinary blue eyes, the thick black hair, the sculpted, arrogant features. He was more casually dressed than had been Leon’s wont, but still exuded the aura of the privileged, the wealthy-from-birth. He rose from the chair at once in a fluid movement that spoke of athleticism and earned strength, and stared at Vanimöré.

‘Marcus,’ Vanya said. ‘My brother, Vanimöré.’

He looked from one to the other, rubbed the palms of his hands down his black jeans.  
‘Should I, ah...call you—‘

‘Lucien Steele,’ Vanimöré interrupted. Not that it mattered; but better not to use it. And he did not want this boy to familiarise himself with it, to _presume_.

Marcus put out a hand. Vanimöré ignored the gesture until, flushing, the young man dropped it to his side. He heard Vanya sigh.  
‘I warned you, my dear.’

Marcus’ eyes flew over Vanimöré. ‘You did,’ he agreed turning to the window where he fiddled with the fabric as if needing something to do with his hands. Vanimöré narrowed his eyes on the slim, straight back.

‘I told Marcus who he is a year ago,’ Vanya said mildly, drawing his attention. ‘Not only who his birth-parents were, but who his original sire is.’

‘And thou didst feel no urge to contact the St. Clouds?’ Vanimöré inquired. He did not trouble to modernise his speech. Marcus St. Cloud could follow it or not, Vanimöré was not about to give him an inch.

‘No,’ Marcus turned. ‘Why would I? Vanya had been the only mother I knew. And I’m no gold digger.’

‘No, there is no need with my sister as wealthy as I am sure she is.’ Vanya merely smiled, close-mouthed, but Marcus’ eyes blazed.  
‘I am not responsible for my birth _or_ my parentage,’ he said coldly, and moved to Vanya, as if protective. It stirred an ancient memory in Vanimöré, of stepping before his sister, deflecting attention away from her, or trying to. Little good it had done. Sauron’s eyes missed nothing. He drew in a quick breath.  
‘Granted,’ he said. ‘I suppose.’

Vanya patted Marcu’s hand. ‘Go and get some wine from the kitchen, my dear.’ He nodded sharply with a long look at Vanimöré and went out.

‘Thou art frightening him,’ Vanya reproved. ‘Thou art a god — and far, far more, on a world where they do not walk among men. Thou hast no idea of how thou doth look, even with the glamour, and without it...’

Vanimöré shrugged. ‘So? Vanya, it is useless to attempt to make me feel anything for him. What art thou expecting — or hoping — I will do?’ he asked wearily. ‘Thou knowest my plans.’

‘I know,’ she said softly. ‘I want thee to take him through apotheosis.’

‘No,’ he flung at her. ‘ _Never._ He knows nothing, is nothing. Gods should come to their power only by suffering, by living, and I cannot push him through that experience without damaging his mind. I never did it for the Eldar, I most _certainly_ will not do it for _him._ ’

‘There are some,’ she said quietly. ‘Who can encompass it.’

‘That boy is not one of them.’

‘So well thou knowest him?’

‘He is a reflection of me. I know enough.’

She crossed to the table, ran her fingers over the surface. ‘He reminds me of thee. Loving, courageous, foolhardy sometimes. We moved from the UK when he was just two. Like thee, I have homes all over the world. We went to France first. I have a place near Perpignan, and when he was older, Marcus studied at the University of Toulouse.’ She paused in her movements. ‘He studied ancient history, specifically the Assyrian Empire.’

Vanimöré cast up his eyes. ‘ _The Assyrian came down like the wolf on the fold,_ ’ he quoted. ‘Sauron would approve of the Assyrians.’  
  
‘Do not be difficult,’ she chided. ‘I named him Marcus after _Mars_. He is a young warrior, Vanimöré. He is an expert in many different Martial Arts. He can use guns and bows, and received trophies in fencing.’  
  
‘That will come in useful in a competition,’ Vanimöré responded, unimpressed.  
  
‘He has killed.’  
  
‘Has he indeed?’ He put up his brows.  
  
We returned here three years ago,’ Vanya said. ‘He was restless. Ancient history is after all, more cerebral than physical, although he had been on a few digs. He decided to volunteer for the VSO.’  
  
‘Go on.’  
  
‘Thou knowest as well as I how dangerous it can be in some of these countries,’ she said. ‘A group of enemy soldiers, or rather, enemies of the current regime, went into a village. It was not pleasant. There were many death on both sides. Marcus got hold of a gun, a machete and fought. He killed several before they were driven off and experienced no trauma after. He really is very like thee.’  
  
‘That is no good thing, Vanya. I was trained to be a warrior, a killer. It is not laudable, simply what I was best at.’ _And I did suffer trauma, after I killed thee, or believed I had._  
  
She put out a hand toward him in a quick gesture for him to cease that thought.  
‘What I say is: All versions of thee are not so unlike _thee_. They are only what thou _couldst have been._ ’  
  
He crossed to her, looked out of the window. If the house had been left to moulder gently, some money and care had been spent on the gardens. The stable blocks, barns, staff accommodation ,whose roofs he could see, all looked excellently maintained. Two immense cedars spread their thick dark fans toward the mown lawn. The house faced inland to a settled, benign country of fields, tracks and small woods, away from the marshes where the flat grey sea met the limitless sky. It was an uncanny area. Tons of silt poured daily into the shallow, muddy sea called the Wash, from the fens. Sea birds called their lonely cries from the marshes. Sometimes one could not tell where land ended and sea began. _A haunted land...A liminal place._  
  
The door creaked open to admit Marcus with wine and three glasses. It was a cold, dry Sauvignon Blanc, welcome to the throat. After her first sip, Vanya said, ‘Tell Vanimöré of thy dreams, Marcus.’  
  
‘Yes.’ Vanimöré held the blue eyes with his own, said softly, dangerously: ‘Tell me about thy dreams, Marcus St. Cloud.’  
  
In the trees, the crows called, aggressive, scolding. Barrow-guardians, cairn-dwellers, carrion-eaters.  
  
‘ _Tell me,_ ’ Vanimöré said.  
  
  


**OooOooO**


	5. ~ Rose-gold and Ebony ~

  
  
  
  


~ Rose-gold and Ebony ~ 

Instead, Marcus said, ‘I felt it when my brother died. I never knew him, but I always felt there was something missing. And...’ Those lovely eyes were wide, brilliant. Accusing. ‘You killed him.’

Vanya looked from one to the other quickly.

‘I did.’

‘How could you?’ Marcus asked, his voice soft, strained.

‘Shall we say, for the sake of verity, that I put him out of his misery?’ Vanimöré offered with a snap. ‘Thuringwethil’s poison was killing him.’

‘But you could have saved him? You’ve done it before, in...other worlds.’

Vanimöré tilted his head, looking down at the young man. ‘Why would I save one of Sauron’s servants?’

‘But, he’s part of _you_! At least—‘

‘And?’

Vanya interposed gently: ‘My brother reckons nothing of himself, Marcus my dear. He values himself not at all. It is not possible for him to kill himself, although he has died and only resurrected to greater power. Now, no-one and nothing can kill him and I believe he hates the idea.’

Vanimöré smiled thinly. ‘Very succinct.’

Marcus looked as if he would say something more. The words were gathering under his breastbone. His face was ice-white, eyes blazing and now, for the first time, Vanimöré saw a hint of deepest indigo in their cobalt even as he caught the whisper of mind-speech between Marcus and Vanya. Whatever she said, it stopped him. He gave Vanimöré his back, crossed to the window.

Vanimöré took a sip of his wine. ‘So, thou wert going to tell me of thy dreams?’

The wide shoulders were braced. He said nothing for a moment, then half-turned.  
‘My dreams,’ he said coldly. ‘Very well. They began long ago. I don’t...don’t remember not having them.’ He glanced across at Vanya, who had disposed herself elegantly on the well-worn sofa, and crossed to a chair set at right-angles as if not wanting it to seem that he clung to her skirts. She was far more relaxed than her adopted son, far more relaxed than her brother.

‘He would wake from them screaming,’ she said. ‘And he would not tell me what they were for years, although I could _see._ Night terrors, the doctors called them. So they would, and so they were. But how can one tell a child they were memories of an old life? I had to wait until he was older.’ She turned her head to Vanimöré. ‘Thy life in this world was very much the same as in the old universe, my dear.’

‘Except here, I — he — followed Sauron.’

Vanya put down her glass with a click. Her eyes drove into his, hard and bright as spear-points. Knowing him completely. ‘Thou didst resist Sauron in every way possible, my brother.’ Her voice was kind, implacable as the first bleak snowfall that will lock the land into winter. ‘But thou _didst_ follow him in the old world, at least until the One Ring was destroyed. Until thou didst pass through Fos Almir and become a god, and were strong enough to break the blood link.’ _And even so...hast thou ever truly broken it_?

Vanimöré’s hands clenched. He despised himself for it, and, for a moment, hated her for saying it, but she spoke truth. He might have fought, struggled, resisted to the point of torture and agony, but he _had_ followed orders. Most of the time, anyhow. In releasing Maglor (and later, sending Elgalad away) he had defied Sauron, but his father had been rather occupied at those times and anyhow, he had known Vanimöré would do just that. It was a test; everything was a test: _We forged thee as a sword is forged..._  
He looked out of the window. Howard had joined Maglor, Edenel and Coldagnir at the cars.

‘The difference is, in this world, thou didst, ultimately, _submit_ to him,’ Vanya continued pedantically. ‘As a father, as an overlord, as a lover — as a god.’ Vanimöré half-laughed, bitter as ancient rust. He said nothing.

Marcus talked then, of the dreams that could have come from Vanimórë’s own mind when younger: the treatment was the same, save there had been no twin for him to kill. There was the imprisonment in that worm-hole cell of rock that still had the power to spring perspiration from his skin. The interminable waiting, wondering if, this time, he would be forgotten, left there, never dying, but becoming some mute, broken, _thing_ , squatting in the dark, insane. He remembered, too, the Dagor Dagorath and the Monument, when he had returned to that nightmare. It had taken Sauron to snap him from it.

His mind drifted into memory, listening. Marcus’ voice wove sometimes into an attractive hint of French, nothing like his own accent, which people thought was vaguely Russian. He did not look at the boy; Leon St. Cloud had been easy enough on the eye, but Vanimöré had never looked deeper, never seen any resemblance between himself and a human man. Now that he knew what Marcus was, he did not _want_ to see it, to look at anyone who even vaguely resembled him. And yet, Marcus — and Leon — had enough of him in their appearance to be instantly recognisable. Who had blinded him, he wondered, Eru — or Vanya?

‘I am not he,’ Marcus declared as he finished. ‘And whatever my...brother was, here, I am not the same.’

Vanimöré looked at his sister. ‘Sauron must know,’ he said. ‘He would have felt twins.’

She nodded. ‘He did know,’ she said calmly. ‘And he has looked. I can conceal Marcus as well as myself, and always have done. We have also moved around, save when Marcus was at university. Travel is an education in itself, is it not?’

Vanimöré finished his wine. ‘I have to speak to Howard. I assume thou art not staying here this evening?’

‘Why not? We stayed last night, and Howard believes it would be better if we all did,’ she replied. ‘He said it was easier to monitor us. I dare say we can make it comfortable enough, and most of us have known worse.’

The last thing Vanimöré wanted to do was spend time with Marcus but he shrugged. ‘Very well,’ and left the room.

‘Steele,’ Howard growled, as Vanimöré trod down the front steps. ‘ _Don’t_ you dare leave! We have a lot to talk about.’

Vanimöré threw a wink at the others and followed Howard back into the house, into a study-cum-library. The St. Clouds might have been eccentric, but their estate manager had her head screwed firmly on capable shoulders and used this room efficiently. There were computers, stud books, veterinary records, accounts. The manager, whose name was Lola Clyde, was a brisk woman in her fifties, who also acted as the Stud manager. Her eyes were a pale, sharp brown behind large glasses, her voice an upper-class drawl, her skin weathered, and her confidence absolute, though the deaths of her employers had shaken her professionally and personally. She glanced almost continuously at a large watch, as if harried by time and resentful of it, and stared at Vanimöré as if not certain where to place him in her mind. She appeared to give up, and turned to Howard as being the less unusual of the two.  
‘Evening stables in an hour and a half,’ she announced. ‘And the Merton’s are arriving tomorrow.’ At his blank expression: ‘They’re owners. Their filly, Maid of Skye, won the Oaks two years ago. They want to put her to Rob Roi this year.’ Vanimöré stifled a smile at Howard’s blank expression. ‘The stud fee is a quarter of a million and rising yearly and they’re obviously concerned.’ Her eyes flashed back to Vanimöré and she coughed. ‘I need to be able to tell them and everyone else, that nothing will change. It wouldn’t be good for the horses,’ she added.

‘The new owner of Clouds will ensure that nothing changes,’ Howard said reassuringly, with a sideways glance at Vanimöré.

Lola Clyde rubbed the back of her neck. ‘That’s what I’ve been telling everyone who called for two days,’ she said wearily. ‘Well,’ she patted her pockets to locate her phone. ‘I have to go. You know where I am. Mr...Mr. Wainwright.’

‘I’ve had it up to here with horses these last two days,’ Howard complained, when the door had shut. ‘I don’t understand anything she says. As far as I’m concerned one end kicks and the other end bites. And did she say a quarter of a million? For what?’

Vanimöré laughed. ‘The fee to have their top stallion, Rob Roi, cover a mare, Howard.’

‘Seriously?’

‘Indeed. The bloodstock market is a bulti-million pound industry. In fact, I was going down to look at the stables. Is there anything?’

‘Yes,’ patiently. ‘There’s quite a lot of “anything”, Steele. It would be better if you could stay around for a while. Ms er...Tiera and the young man are staying here. The lawyers have been contacted and they’ll have to go up to London next week. She’s offered to oversee the house in the interim, but if the DNA testing pans out then Marcus will inherit Clouds and all his parents wealth, after the usual legal brangle, anyhow. Would it be at all possible for you to stay until they come back from London?’

‘I suppose so,’ Vanimöré replied, unenthusiastic.

‘And,’ Howard pursued doggedly, pinching the bridge of his nose. ‘Mr Arthur May. He has some nerve. He’s back at his antique’s shop, cool as you please.’

Vanimöré raised his brows. ‘What does he have to be concerned about?’ he asked rhetorically. ‘And I prefer to know where he is.’

‘You have a point. At least I hope to God you do. And then there’s Robert’s senior, the little shit’s father who you definitely, absolutely did not, of course, cause to crash into a quarry and drown.’ Vanimöré looked back at him unblinking. ‘He’s threatening all sorts of action, even though toxicology reports confirm his son was drunk-driving. And he’s more than all mouth that one; he’s a nasty piece of work. Looks like an over-ripe side of beef that’s run into a brick shithouse, and has some equally unpleasant hangers-on.’

‘All right, Howard, I will deal with him if it becomes necessary.’

Howard groaned. ‘Please don’t say that. He’s not another Ronnie Trent, but that doesn’t mean he’s above paying for some muscle. He was proud of his worthless son. Justin was the apple of his eye apparently. So, I have people watching Summerland in case he gets any ideas. And...’ with a quick look. ‘I’ve started a hunt for the real Samael. I’m not certain there is one to find, Steele, I have to be honest with you.’

‘I’m not, either.’ Although he suspected there had been and probably still was. Somewhere.

‘The trail’s long cold, if there ever was one, at least I assume it is, but we’ll try.’

‘I don’t expect miracles, Howard.’ With a cold smile. ‘At least, not the ones I do not arrange myself.’

‘Right.’ Howard blinked. ‘And Ms...Ms Tiera. As I said, she’s offered to stay on as unofficial overseer until Marcus is officially made heir, and he seems happy with that. He wants to get to know the estate, the people.’

‘Very well.’ He turned. ‘I at least will stay, I’m not sure what the others will do.’ Although Maglor would not leave the Silmaril in Summerland, and had placed it in the Bentley’s trunk, the Palantir was locked in the basement. Summerland had never been burgled during Vanimöré’s time, but in another world, Thuringwethil had infiltrated the grounds and set off the alarm. He would prefer someone to be in residence. ‘Talk to Ms Tiera about finding bed linen and rooms and so forth. We’ll make them up. She may wish to call in temporary staff, but they would need vetting. And I assume Ms. Clyde has been warned that any new stable hands must be vetted also? And now, I am going down to the stables.’

The Cloud’s ‘stables’ were a little hamlet: staff houses huddled about the barns, stable blocks and paddocks. There was a large ‘bunkhouse’ for the ‘lads’, and two detached houses for the ‘girls’. Further away, within a grove of trees, a small cottage sat mellowly in the sun, its feet founded in flowers and a green lawn. A few mares, with growing foals at foot, grazed, and two stallions were out in separate fields, but Vanimöré saw no sign of the famous ‘Rob Roi.’

‘Who is he?’ Maglor asked.

‘He was bred here,’ Vanimöré said as they paused in the lane beside one of the gallops. On one side was a neat fence, on the other a hedge of hawthorn coming to full bloom. The scent, heavy in the warm sun, thrust his mind into long-ago days that were not worth recall. _Illusion. Come at me with thy power, Eru, with thine anger, anything, but never give me pity, and never seek to move me with it. Not again._  
He brushed the confetti of falling blossoms from his shoulder.  
‘I Googled,’ he added and Maglor’s expression swept in to a genuine, amused and charming smile that brought a spontaneous laugh to Vanimöré’s throat. ‘I have no interest in betting, and own no horses at the moment,’ he explained. ‘Several years ago, Monica St. Cloud sent one of her mares to be covered by a top stallion, a former winner of the English and Kentucky Derby. But her mare was a national hunt horse, a jumper with a lot of stamina and excellent pedigree of its own. Rob Roy was the result. He was not destined to be a flat racer; grew too big, and bad tempered according to the news articles, although he won two races as a three year old on the flat before going on to jump racing. Monica didn’t want him gelded, so she decided to put him to stud.’ He smiled into Maglor’s eyes. ‘Thou must have had exceptional stallions and mares thou wouldst breed from, Macalaurë. I did.’

Maglor flushed, eyes going into the past. ‘I did,’ he said. ‘Of course.’ Beside him, Tindómion nodded. ‘And I understand, but why such a phenomenal stud fee?’

From somewhere in the distance came the whicker of a horse. ‘It was almost accidental, apparently,’ Vanimöré said. ‘A few people liked the breeding of Rob Roi even if his temperament left something to be desired, and so put their mares to him. The offspring started to win a lot of races. So far, all of them have won major races, and those that did not came second and are improving. Flat racing is where the money is, of course, but he has sired eventers, show jumpers and steeplechasers too, and some of his colts are earmarked to go to stud. The Aga Khan and the Queen have sent mares to Rob Roi and he is only nine years old. He has many potent years ahead of him.’

Vanimöré paused at the thud of hooves. They looked around. Over the little crest of ground to the west, a horse appeared on the gallops. Only the low white fence separated them from the prepared turf and they stood motionless, watching as the horse flowed over the ridge and down toward them. He was held at a controlled hand-gallop, his rider’s hands low on the arched neck. The drumming in the ground grew louder as they approached, and as the earth flattened out, the rider let him stretch. It was like watching the wind unfurl into a storm. The stallion’s legs ate up the ground as if it were liminal, scarcely there. Beside him, Maglor quoted in his rich, lovely voice: _".....And Allah took a handful of south wind and from it formed a horse, saying, "I create thee, Oh Arabian. To thy forelock I bind victory in battle. On thy back I set a rich spoil, and a treasure in thy loins. I establish thee flight without wings."_

‘Yes,’ Tindómion murmured.

The stallion was black as poured jet, muscles shifting under the sleek pelt like oiled pistons as he thundered down the track. His stride was effortless as flame unleashed. His hooves spurned the grass even as the sound grew louder, dinning in their ears. He passed with a flying swiftness, a pile-driving of power that shook the earth.

The rider was a woman, bright hair escaping from under her crash-cap, almost small as a child on that great back although she was manifestly an adult. Slowly, she drew the stallion to a canter, a trot, a long, elastic walk. He barely blew, his legs springy. Vanimöré thought of his magnificent battle stallion, Seran, with his irascible temper and courageous heart. Rob Roi must stand well over eighteen hands, as Seran had.

 _Vanimöré._ Edenel’s mental exclamation was as physical as the stroke of flame down Vanimórë’s spine when horse and rider galloped past. Coldagnir too, had turned to him, bronze eyes burning with a question.

 _Yes. Unexpected._ But was anything truly unexpected any more?

They turned back, made their way down to the stable blocks, all of them wearing sunglasses, fully glamoured. Evening stables was not for a while and it was quiet, a few inquisitive heads looking hopefully over their half-doors. Lola Clyde came across the yard at speed, looking irritated at having to deal with yet more uninvited guests.

‘Just taking a look around,’ Vanimöré said, at which she nodded, vanishing into one of the boxes. A few minutes later she came out, holding the door open, and Rob Roi emerged, lead by his rider. Unsaddled and rubbed-down, he still walked with a spring, cat-like ears flicked forward. There was a massive and powerful presence about him, a charisma some horses did posses. He was a High King among them, and he knew it.

The girl had looped the strap of her crash cap over one arm and her hair was bared to the sun: unmistakable rose-gold, wind-tossed coils around her shoulders; the sweet, sensitive face, the warm little smile. The stallion towered over her, but she was unconcerned as she lead him over the cobbles toward the paddocks, speaking sometimes to him, easy and relaxed, but alert as all who knew horses must be, especially thoroughbreds.

‘Rob Roi,’ said Lola Clyde beside them. Her bright, watchful eyes were fixed on the horse with a kind of awe and Vanimöré did not blame her. ‘You’ve heard of him of course? Bit of the devil in that one. Only Lady St. Cloud could really manage him, until Claire came.’

Maglor’s head turned swiftly to her, then swung to Vanimórë, who gave a tiny nod of acknowledgement.

‘She’s amazing with him,’ Lola went on. ‘She’s on a gap year, a shame, because a lot of the ‘lads’ are scared of Robin — that’s what she calls him — can be ah...difficult, but look, you can see, he’s like a puppy with her, and he was with Monica, too. Some people do have the knack,’ she said, a bit belligerently. ‘Horse whisperers might be an old folk tale, but I’ve seen stranger things. Horses just click with some people.’

‘Yes,’ Vanimöré agreed. ‘They do.’

The woman’s eyes softened a bit in approval. She nodded curtly. ‘She’d never worked in a stables before, but she could ride. Good with the horses. Good hands. And Monica liked her.’ She blinked rapidly, patted her lips. ‘The staff houses were full, so she put her in the little cottage.’ She pointed. ‘I used to have it, but I bought a house in the village. The cottage is a nice place, quite private, as you see, and they put heating in, as it was used to be a bit damp.’ Her eyes returned to the stallion. ‘He’s looking well,’ she muttered as if to herself. It seemed her nature to talk while her mind was already thinking of other matters.

‘We saw him,’ Maglor said. ‘Up the lane.’

‘He needs his exercise, yes,’ Lola rejoined. ‘And now, only Claire can ride him. Not sure what we’ll do when she leaves. He just doesn’t _take_ to many people. It’s a pity he was never seriously raced in my opinion, as he needs to work off all that energy. He’s pretty lively even after covering a mare, which most stallion’s _aren’t_ , but Monica always said he had a wild soul.’ She grimaced. ‘Maybe she was right.’ She jutted out her formidable chin and marched off in pursuit of the stallion.

They followed at a distance, to the paddock railed off from the little cottage, with trees and tall hedges for shade. Claire unclipped the lead rope, and Rob Roi lowered his beautiful head to her breast before turning and galloping away, frisking like a playful colt, rolling, legs kicking, before standing and shaking himself. His great crest rose like a swan’s in all the arrogant potency of the male stallion.  
Claire leaned on the gate for a while watching him, and Lola joined her. When, after a few minutes, they turned, Claire stopped dead, perhaps startled at seeing five tall men watching her. At least with their eyes shaded she could not see the intensity of their looks, as each of them remembered a different Claire, dreams of a goddess under an autumn moon...But she must have felt something of it; there was a fleeting expression on her face, like one trying to remember something long forgotten...  
Lola murmured something to her and she nodded.

‘Claire James,’ Lola said.

‘How do you do?’ Vanimöré extended a hand. ‘We saw you riding. He’s magnificent.’

Her smile was Like sunrise. ‘Yes,’ she agreed wholeheartedly. ‘But a handful!’ She had a pleasant voice, a soft hint of the north. A firm handshake.

Lola’s phone buzzed and she fished it out of her pocket, walking away a little.

‘Are you the only one who rides him?’ Edenel inquired.

‘I am now.’ She looked down with a frown. ‘Monica used to. It’s an awful tragedy.’ Her eyes rose again. They were grey, long-lashed. ‘Their son and then this...’

‘Did you know them well?’ Vanimöré asked gently.

‘Monica I knew better.’ She gestured to the paddock. ‘Robin was her baby, really, her pride. And now of course everyone’s worried about the future. Except...’ She flicked a glance toward The Clouds, hidden from here by the trees and buildings. Howard would have told Lola Clyde only as much as she needed and no more, but no doubt rumours were rife. ‘Is that what you’re here about?’ Claire asked politely, lowering her voice. ‘The estate?’

‘In a sense. Leon St. Cloud was working for me when he died.’

‘Oh?’ she responded. ‘I thought he had a government job.’

‘He did. He was seconded to me for a time.’

Claire’s eyes narrowed for a moment, then she started toward the stables. ‘I suppose you can’t tell me — any of us — what’s going on? I’m on a gap year, but this is their full time and only job for some, including Lola.’

‘Have you been told nothing?’ Maglor asked her.

‘Not really. Only that they died,’ she said solemnly. ‘They travel regularly. It was completely unexpected. A dreadful thing. There’ll be a funeral at the village church when they bring them home.’

Lola ended her conversation and marched across, guiding Claire away in a manner that seemed half-protective and half business. Claire gave a small smile and went with her. The others watched her until she vanished around a bend in the track.

OooOooO

The next couple of hours they opened bedrooms and made beds with clean but long-unused linen. Like everything here, it was old and expensive and had once been laid downs with muslin bags of lavender and the faint scent still clung to them. There were no duvets, but plenty of blankets and the pillows were pure eider feathers.

Vanimórë’s chosen room looked out toward the marshes and the sea, a lonely landscape where wading birds called and the sunrise, over that flat marsh and sea, seemed to illuminate half the world.

‘There’s a couple of good pubs down in the village,’ Howard said early that evening. ‘I had to send some of the men out yesterday to get food in. I used to think Leon must be exaggerating about his parents and their total lack of domesticity, but he wasn’t.’ He paused and Vanimöré knew that he was not over the anger and sense of betrayal and loss. ‘Anyhow, there’s still better food down the pubs.’

‘Take them to eat, then, Howard,’ Vanimöré said. ‘We will go when you return. We’ll finish up here.’

Howard went with alacrity and Vanimöré continued setting up the bedrooms. The seasonal warmth at least ensured there was no real damp, but in the autumn and winter, the rooms would be chilly. He opened windows to the salty air, not averse to taking a look around. Much of the house looked unlived-in for decades, some rooms swathed in ghostly dust-sheets, others jumbled with old furniture which an antique hunter would have lusted for, and still others were almost bare but for the skeletons of beds or chairs, the odd picture hung on walls. Long and gloomy corridors, lined by worn strips of drugget, ran the length and breadth of the two upper storeys. There was a smell here, of must, mildew, unaired stonework.

He came upon Vanya on the third floor, leaning against the wall.

‘The place needs some work,’ she remarked as she straightened. ‘Marcus thinks it haunted,’ she added. Vanimöré nodded. ‘Or rather, he knows it is, and that ghosts are nothing to fear, not like those our father created, anyhow, in the shadows of Dol Guldur. So far he has identified a ‘grey lady’ in the downstairs corridor, a kitchen maid in the utility room, a ghost horse in one of the paddock; a dark shape gliding across the gardens, and something he thinks comes out of the marshes, from the sea. And there’s definitely something in the old church yonder.’ She pointed toward the marshes.

‘Well spotted,’ Vanimöré drawled. ‘Well, if this all falls through he can become one of those t.v. Ghost hunter psychics. Does he intend to stay here?’ He fell into step beside her. ‘Or will he live elsewhere and run the place from a distance?’

‘Stay, probably. At least for a while. He says he has much to learn about the business. He will keep Lola Clyde on; she’s a positive gem.’

‘He does know that is dangerous? That Sauron _will_ attempt to make contact once he knows who the new owner of The Clouds is?’ Vanya regarded him with limpid eyes. ‘There’ll be no way of keeping that out of the news. This place has too many people coming and going, owners, friends, staff, deliveries, veterinarians. Someone will put his picture on the internet, in the papers.’ And he was not even as concerned about Sauron running loose as the elusive Eru.

‘I will be here,’ she responded. ‘And yes, he knows. If The Clouds becomes his, Vanimöré, he will consider it his duty to remain here. He has no of need of wealth; I gave him a fortune when he turned twenty-one. Does that sound like anyone?’

‘Why give him a fortune so young?’ he asked, ignoring her question.

‘A test, my dear, to see what he would do with it.’

‘And what did he do with it?’

‘Well, he _did_ write-off a Lamborghini,’ she admitted. ‘But it was _not_ his fault. And he only broke his wrist and cracked his head. Like thee, he rather loves good cars. Apart from that, a few youthful affaires, nothing. I wanted to see if the money would go to his head; it did not.’

‘I should hope not, with thee acting as his mother.’

‘Ah, and do not most sons want to leave the nursery? But I think I have done rather well with him. I wish thou couldst see it. He would not tell thee of course, but he wept when he felt Leon die.’

‘Vanya.’ He stopped, drew her around to face him. ‘I am not going to apologise for killing Leon. I am not sorry. I rather liked the boy, until the end. And I ask thee this: It is easy enough to see myself in Marcus. Wert thou hiding Leon from me?’

Her eyes lowered. She nodded. ‘I rather hoped...’

‘That I would save his life as I saved Claire’s,’ he nodded.

‘I think he would have changed.’ Her eyes rose to his.

‘He would have been grateful, yes. But change? I doubt it. And didst thou know that Claire James was here?’ he asked.

‘Yes,’ she said tranquilly. ‘I knew she was alive in this world.’

‘There is no such thing as coincidence, Vanya.’

‘No,’ she agreed. ‘We must watch her, too.’ Her eyes, in the dim passage were preternaturally bright. ‘The dreams, Vanimöré...’

He waited. Her eyes frowned as if looking through the thick walls, seeing something far-off and invisible to him.  
‘What wilt thou do?’ Her voice was a whisper.

‘When the time comes...exactly what Eru told me I did,’ he said grimly, then, offering his arm, ‘May I treat thee to a meal, my dear?’

She took it. ‘We would be delighted. Me and Marcus both.’

OooOooO


	7. ~ The Doorways of Dreams ~

  
  
  
  


**~ The Doorways of Dreams ~**

~ Edenel and Coldagnir remained at the house, while Maglor, Tindómion, and Vanimöré escorted his sister and Marcus to the village. It was less than a mile away and so they walked through the milk-warm evening, Vanya and Marcus falling a little behind.

That had been a fraught moment, when Maglor came face to face with Marcus. Recognition had sparked like lightning in the silver eyes and his whole body had primed as for battle. Tindómion was at his shoulder the two of them, without weapons, Fëanorion swords pointed at the young man’s heart. But Marcus had stood his ground. A flicker of doubt had loosed Maglor’s muscles, he glanced at Vanimöré, then back to Marcus.  
‘I have said it once but repeated it now,’ he said his voice resonant in the echoing hall. ‘I would kill — gladly — the man that _was_. But not this one. He is not the same.’

Vanya had watched, and Vanimöré cast a quick look at his sister. He did not believe she would hurt the Fëanorions, but certainly prevent them from harming her adopted son. As it was, the atmosphere had thickened like approaching thunder and then dissipated, settling to something that was not quite peace, but closer than before. Maglor turned on his heel, and with his son at his side, strode from the house. Vanimöré thought they might decline the meal in the village, but they came, perhaps wishing to keep Marcus where they could see him.

Norfolk was not entirely strange to Vanimöré, who had travelled widely on Middle-earth and even more in these new worlds, but the flatness of the landscape disturbed him. The Noldor in his blood yearned for mountains, the high lands and moors; even when he dwelt in the desert Harad, they called him like the North Star. Yet there was a beauty in this land; the massive skies and, as they turned their faces from the doubtful margin between land and sea, the countryside was kindly, small fields laid down to crops, a few pastures, little woods on rises of land.

The two village pubs catered mainly for tourists who came to enjoy the solitude and the bird sanctuary a few miles south. They were comfortable, unpretentious places, offering rooms and decent food and, as they entered, Vanimöré saw Claire James finishing a meal at a little table tucked near the empty fireplace. She looked up and smiled faintly, nodding in acknowledgment.

‘Claire,’ Vanya exclaimed, making her way over. ‘Do come and join us.’

Claire was staring at Marcus. Vanya patted her shoulder, Claire nodded and returned to her drink.

‘She saw Leon at Christmas,’ Vanya explained as they sat down. ‘It shocked her.’

Marcus unfolded a napkin. ‘I know her,’ he said.

‘Oh?’ Maglor raised his brows.

‘I‘ve never met her. But...a dream...’

Maglor’s eyes turned to Vanimöré. _Perhaps it is inevitable,_ Vanimöré responded. _Considering who he is. Or was._

He had little appetite but Vanya ate without stress, leading the conversation. As they finished their coffee she turned in her seat and waved to Claire who came across to them.  
‘I didn’t want to bother you while you were eating,’ she said.

‘Do you come here for food every evening?’ Vanya asked, smiling.

‘Not all the time, no, but it’s nice not to cook sometimes.’ She said, straight to Marcus. ‘Excuse me staring, but I did see Leon over Christmas, and you look exactly like him. I’m so sorry.’

‘I didn’t know him,’ Marcus responded with a faint flush and the merest flick of a glance at Vanimöré. ‘Please don’t apologise.’

Claire glanced around. ‘So you’ll be taking over The Clouds? Lola mentioned it at evening stables.’

‘There’s a matter of DNA testing,’ Marcus said. ‘And what looks like a jungle of legalities, but I hope so. There’s a lot to learn,’ he added with a dazzling, disarming smile.

She nodded. ‘Lola’s an excellent manager.’ She took a sip of her drink. Vanimöré noticed that while she tried not to stare her eyes were drawn to them all, as if that elusive memory was not-quite within reach.

‘Lola will definitely be kept on,’ Marcus was quick to reassure.

 _She does dream,_ Vanya told him. _She is not as calm as she seem, but she has excellent defences. She has had to, in her previous careeer._

Vanimöré felt (always) a certain diffidence toward Claire, even though he would do the same again if he had to: give her his blood to save her from death. She had not chosen it, but he knew she had come to accept it, and more, The fact that he had never even considered offering it to Leon, dying, said a great deal. He rose and went to the bar which was, for a country tavern, well stocked and they did have what he requested: Auchentoshan Three-wood whiskey. He ordered red wine for the rest of them and returned to the table.

‘Oh, my god,’ Claire exclaimed. ‘I never even knew they stocked this, and I’ve been here since October! It didn’t occur to me to ask.’ She closed her eyes and nosed the glass appreciatively. ‘Mmm.’ She took a sip. ‘Thank you. But how did you _know_.’

Vanimöré smiled, saw it mirrored in Maglor’s eyes. ‘Well, we have had to go through the staff records. And this was one of the pieces of information that came up in yours. And apparently, the birdwatchers who come here enjoy a drop of the good stuff in the evenings. It keeps the chill off in colder weather. He doesn’t keep it on display, though.’

She laughed delightfully. ‘I’ll remember that.’

The conversation relaxed a little more, mostly thanks to Claire herself and Vanya, and Vanimöré sat back. The place was not busy. A couple had come in to eat, and there were a few more in the bar, sitting over pints, a group in the garden with some young children. The couple dining were in fact Howard’s people, ostensibly here bird-spotting and dressed the part. There were some curious looks at the Clouds group, because anything that happened at the house was legitimate gossip for the village and surrounding area, but no-one approached them, even if they surely spoke among themselves. It was an unfortunate, as well as tragic business, impossible to truly ‘manage’ although Howard was doing all he could.

‘I’m not sure,’ Claire was saying to Vanya’s question. ‘This is so different to my job there’s no comparison. It’s certainly _healthier_ ,’ she made an expressive face. ‘And not so mentally stressful, but you can’t really make a living from it, not enough for a mortgage anyhow, and the St. Clouds paid a lot more than minimum wage, mostly as cash-in-hand ‘tips’. That’s why most live-in, apart from it being quite remote here.’

Vanya nodded, sitting back in her chair. ‘It must be bleak in the winter.’

‘It is, and I don’t really mind the cold, but riding, it can turn your feet to ice. And last winter...’ Her eyes moved to the window. ‘We had thick fog, which made it seem as if we were cut off, that there wasn’t another world beyond it — then east winds from Siberia. It was bitter.’

‘Your cottage is warm enough?’ Maglor asked. ‘Ms Clyde said heating had been installed.’

‘Yes, thank goodness.’ But she smiled. ‘It’s a lovely cottage, almost an ode to chintz,’ she added with a chuckle. ‘Lola decorated it. But cosy. You’re welcome to come and see it.’ To all of them, and to Marcus. ‘Well of course you are, sorry. It’s yours.’

They visited the cottage by mutual consent, walking back to The Clouds as the sun sank far in the west, and the last birds chirped themselves to roost. A great silence held the dusk as they went up the lane from the stables. Claire stopped at the paddock gate as Rob Roi came over, a great black shape who whickered gently, accepted a mint which he crunched with strong teeth, then returned to cropping the grass.

Claire’s cottage _was_ extremely chintzy, also cosy and bright. The bathroom was downstairs, with a tiny flight of stairs leading to two small bedrooms, one being used for storage. Like the mansion, it faced inland to the paddocks, rather than toward the sea. Tall trees backed it as if linking their arms to protect it from the it from the marshlands, the unimpeded winter winds, and the garden was bright with spring flowers. The cottage possessed an entirely different atmosphere to The Clouds, relaxing, embracing, and Marcus said so.  
Claire looked at him with speculation. ‘You feel it too?’ And when he nodded. ‘I stayed at the house for two nights last autumn when they were fixing the boiler here.’ She gave a charming shrug that nevertheless was weighted by memory.

‘There’s a large turnover of staff, I was told?’

‘To be fair, there generally is, in this business,’ she responded. ‘Lola gets extremely frustrated.’

Marcus looked across the paddocks, then turned his head toward the house and the sea. ‘It’s remote, but not that remote, I’ve been in places far more wild and desolate. It just feels it, I suppose. But it’s not just that, is it?’

Claire paused as if weighing her words before replying. ‘Not entirely,’ she said at last. ‘And some people feel it more than others. I don’t think the St. Clouds did at all, but certainly visitors and staff, some of them anyway.’

‘And yourself.’

She rubbed her arms, though the evening was still warm. ‘I’m exceptionally glad to have this cottage, that much I will say.’ Then, in a seeming attempt to lighten the atmosphere, looked from him to Maglor, to Tindómion and Vanimöré. ‘Ah...I never heard your names, I think? But are you all related?’

Vanimöré’s ‘No’, Maglor’s ‘No and —‘ and Marcus’ ‘Well..’ overlapped and Vanya, laughing, stepped in.  
‘The relationship is complicated,’ she said. ‘And you haven’t been properly introduced yet, have you?’ She indicated Vanimöré. ‘Lucien Steele.’

‘Ohhh.’ The exclamation was one of discovery. Claire’s brows rose. ‘I know you. No, we’ve never met, but I’ve heard of you of course.’

‘In your previous job?’

She nodded. ‘Yes. I’ve never seen you...yet... look familiar.’ Her eyes moved around the men. ‘You _all_ look familiar.’ She knew there was more going on than was apparent, Vanimöré knew, and even that was strange enough: the house under the charge of government-people, a long-lost son to step into the shoes of the one recently dead, a multi-billionaire that few knew anything of, and others who she would _feel_ were not all they seemed. Her instincts were screaming at her, and not in fear, but she said nothing, turning her head to the dark pasture where Rob Roi grazed, magnificently alone. And Vanimöré watched her profile in the dim air, thought of a goddess, a rising moon, fading autumn sunset, and then...an Elf-woman running under a different moon, a different world, hunting the massive aurochs when they came to the salt flats, dancing under the stars, loving, laughing, rose-gold head bent intently over her scrimshaw. Rose-gold, until it burned white in the torments of Utumno.

Andúnië.  
Culina.  
Claire.  
_What does Elgalad want with thee, Claire James_?

OooOooO

Marcus woke, wrenching himself from the dream, heart pounding.  
He still dreamed; rare was there a night of uninterrupted sleep. Vanya said there might never be, that her brother, for all his immeasurable power, also suffered nightmares.

Marcus had told the truth when he said he did not remember a time before them; a result of this was that, as a youth, he declined invitations to sleep over at friend’s house.  
But such invitations were few. He had been homeschooled by Vanya, and they travelled a great deal, though she never neglected his education. It took him until he was ten to realise that some of what he was taught would raise the browse of the most broad-minded Board of Education. But there were practical advantages, too: By the time he was four he was bilingual in French and English and other languages followed. He spent a year, when he was twelve, in Bhutan, another in Mongolia where he was taught Eagle hunting by a man and his daughter who not much older that he. Vanya seemed at home everywhere (as indeed, she was). But, wherever he travelled, the dreams journeyed with him.

By the time he went to university he had, at least in part come to terms with them. Vanya did not tell him the full story for many years, but he had already accepted that his nightmares were more than overactive imagination, born of a mind that had always loved old tales. He did not truly believe in past lives, though he had been to India and lived among people for whom reincarnation was a tenet of their faith, but what he experienced in his nightmares was so real, so vivid that he came to the conclusion it must have happened somewhere, some _when_. A Hindu _sādhu_ once told him that he dreamed a older life, an older world entirely.

When he was sixteen, he read the _Lord of the Rings_ and the _Silmarillion_ , finding the books tucked in a bookcase in Vanya’s Perpignan mansion. He had always loved stories, whether reading or playing computer games, or listening to the tales he was told on his travels: myths of gods and demons and Devas, the beginning and end of worlds. He was not unaware of the gravitas surrounding J.R.R. Tolkien and his works, but for some reason, had never been pulled toward reading the books for himself.

Through the hot days of that Southern summer, he folded his lengthening body into a chair and was absorbed into Middle-earth. He could not form any comparison, but both Vanya and Vanimöré could have told him that the text was slightly different in all worlds. In this one, a son of Sauron was mentioned, though not by name.

_It is said that Maglor, the last surviving son of Fëanor was captured by servants of Sauron and taken to Barad-dûr. But at this time, the army of Ar-Pharazôn approached Mordor and Sauron, seeing the might of the army of Númenor, knowing he could not win this battle, gave himself into the hands of Ar-Pharazôn as a willing prisoner. He left his dark son as captain of Barad-dûr in his absence, with orders to bring Maglor to him in Númenor when he was healed of his torment. Maglor was to be taken in chains to Sauron, who wished to enslave him as Salgant had been enslaved by Morgoth and made his buffoon. But Maglor, by the power of his voice, which was still great, was able to escape...It is told that he still wanders the shores of Middle-earth..._

Marcus remembered how the words had slapped him brutally into vision: Barad-dûr, known to him from its heights to lightless depths, Maglor, shining like a dropped star even in unconsciousness, the desire and fire he had sparked through Vanimöré’s blood. Vanimöré...no name was written, but he _knew_ it as clearly as he saw those days and nights in that tower room. Nights of hating passion...

Vanya had come upon him, his head bowed to his knees, his eyes and mind still so filled with vision he could barely see or hear her when she spoke. The earthquake shook him so that he reassembled himself differently, after.

Vanya had made him forget. She told him years after and without apology. She had wanted him, she said, to read this work, but had not anticipated the instant and violent reaction. All he remembered was the sense of recognition, and the dreams became something he tried to unravel, rather than fear, drive himself to wake from. But he could never, quite, lose that first overwhelming fear...

But this dream-vision was one of _his_ , Marcus thought, the Vanimöré who had come to this house, this world; there was some kind of bleed-over, perhaps triggered by their close proximity.

It was a dream that began in frightening glory and collapsed into destruction and agony. He saw a world beyond the world, a world that no longer existed, save in memory: Legions of Elves in plumed helms, armour glittering, battling the demons of Melkor discharged from some huge monument, an uprooted Angband. He saw them die in conflagrations, he saw Fëanor, never seen in his old life but so like Maglor there could be no doubt; a Fëanor reborn and shining like the heart of a star, facing a monstrous dragon: Ancalagon the Black (by his vastness it could be no other). He watched as if from beside the other Vanimöré as Fëanor met the onrush if the dragon who was not simply a dragon but possessed by Melkor’s will and soul.

It was more than an explosion, it was an event that destroyed a universe, whose echoes crashed, like a breaking wave, up against other universes, other worlds.

He walked through what was left, a no-place of blowing ochre sand, to a figure that knelt, a figure veiled and robed, who rose, lifted his veil...and the sight as another ending, a terrible death of trust, of what had once been love but became, in that instant of revelation an implacable hatred both of the betrayer and the betrayed.

Eru.

At the last, before he woke, came the drone of a dead wind...

He crossed to the window, open to the still spring night. It looked inland across the garden; Marcus felt a certain antipathy for the haunted marshes and the cold grey sea beyond. But the trees cast deep shadows under the moon and mist was gathering at their roots, mist that seemed to take shape and glide across the grass, and the house creaked around him, steps sounding in the dark corridors where none should have fallen.

He had become accustomed to sensing the paranormal, as it was named, but Vanya said it was perfectly normal for such as him and herself, to see echoes of the dead. She, and Marcus too, were not as tethered to Time as Mortals. In fact all Mortals who possessed something of Elven blood tended to see ghosts, to have prophetic dreams, visions, to become psychic — and sometimes deeply disturbed. Marcus did not fear such sightings but he was human enough for such experiences to send ghost-flesh prickling over his skin. And rightly, for Vanya also warned him that while most ghosts were a replay of a memory, some were more: revenants, ghouls, spirits who had been chained to the Earth, descendants of Thuringwethil’s brood from ancient times — and more. It was as well, she said, to be cautious.

He navigated those dim corridors, (while above him, on the third floor something dragged along the passage like a man carrying a heavy sack) the long stairs to the ground floor and the only room he felt at all welcoming, with its worn sofas and chairs and feeling of having been lived in. It still smelt faintly of horses, relict of so many people coming here from the stables. He found that comforting, but there were other scents too: the lingering incense of Vanya’s perfume and a rich, smoky hint of sandalwood. The long curtains were drawn and although he had very good night-vision he groped beside the door for the lamp-switch.

‘Canst thou not see in the dark?’

The lamp illuminated Vanimöré as he stood. He had been sitting in a high-backed wing-chair, his back toward Marcus. Now he turned. Marcus had been ten years old when he began to see through Vanya’s glamour and had no difficultly doing so, but Vanimöré was not wearing it now and he shone like a black sun.

It had been difficult to conceal his feelings on first seeing Vanimöré and he thought he had done quite well, but the impact now struck him like a thousand needles piercing his skin, a silent thunder shaking his bones. It was as if Vanimöré did not truly exist in the word, that he had forced an entrance and, behind it, was the immense _pressure_ and presence of his full reality. The air seemed bent around him; at any moment, Marcus thought, it might give way, collapse and the room, the house, the world itself would fall into the place where he resided, where Vanimöré came from and would go back to. The Outside, Vanya called it, that existed beyond all universes and Time itself. Marcus was conscious, and for the first time, of the stupendous will it took for Vanimöré to enter the world, to live within it and hold most of himself back. There was a similar feeling in the others, Edenel and Coldagnir, and Vanya had told Marcus who and what they were. In the Elves too, there was that quality of being so much more than they appeared to the world at large, so much richer, more noble, passionate and sorrowful, far more beautiful and perilous, but in Vanimöré it was magnified to a colossal and impossible degree. It was, Marcus thought, like the awareness of the power at a heart of a giant nuclear reactor, feeling the threat of it.

And then, like the slap of following wind after a fast car has passed, came the loneliness, bleak, and terrible, an absolute isolation that came only with the kind of power gods would quail before. Yet Vanimöré stood there defying pity, beautiful and implacable as legend.  
He said, dry-mouthed: ‘I think I dreamed...the end. Of the ancient universe.’

The sleek black brows drew into a quick frown. ‘Indeed?’

‘Could you not have prevented it?’ As soon as he said the words he bit his tongue, but looked straight into those eyes as they burned, an inferno of galaxies.

‘Possibly. And did I have any right to? If the Flame Imperishable met the Negation of Melkor there could be no other ending. If Fëanor were not what he was...’ He raised a hand, dropped it in an odd, brittle gesture. ‘Fëanor knew what he was doing. He saw it more clearly than I.’ An ache splintered through the words, the rich, alien voice.

Marcus moved toward the drinks tray that was kept permanently here for guests. He poured a finger of brandy, held the bottle up, offering. Vanimöré looked as if he might refuse, but with a tiny shrug accepted. The spirit uncoiled comfortingly down into Marcus’ stomach. He admitted to needing a drop of liquid courage. Vanya had told him a great deal about her brother, and nothing could have prepared him for the reality. But Vanya did not fear him, and never had; she would understand why someone could, but could not place herself within that mindset; she had always known Vanimöré.  
‘You could have stopped Melkor,’ Marcus insisted, bolstered by the brandy.

‘Yes, and then? The Elves _wanted_ to meet him in that Last Battle. They had the right. They took on the job the Valar shirked and held Melkor through the First Age until the end, and never, never giving up no matter how dark the doom became, the death count rising every day. Noldor. Sindar. Teleri. Avari. Even the Vanyar fought in the War of Wrath.’ Anger smoked from Vanimöré like the fume from a volcano about to erupt. ‘Thou canst not understand the constraints power puts on one, Marcus Tierra. I could not take away their choices, or I would be tempted to do far more: protect them, keep them safe, close them away from life itself. They had ascended, become gods through their lives, through war and pain and passion and suffering. I could not take that choice away from them. It has happened before and ended in the destruction of another universe, an even older one, where some of them were born as gods. I knew nothing of it then, but I would not be as Eru was.’

Eru. The rock that lodged in Vanimórë’s throat, choking him.

‘I almost saw him,’ Marcus said softly. ‘ Almost. But I felt—‘

‘Do not,’ Vanimöré warned coldly. ‘I will not take pity from anyone alive or gone, and certainly not from _thee._ ’ His lip curled. ‘Thou art a shadow born of the shadows in my mind.’

‘Yes, born of your mind, and a part of you!’

Vanimöré’s brows flicked humourlessly. He resumed his seat, the tumbler hanging negligently from those elegant fingers, one leg crossed, the gleaming flood of hair drawn over one straight shoulder. And yet he did not look relaxed, or rather he did, but under that...the burning, the furnace that could lash into movement and violence at any moment.

‘I’m ashamed of what I — he — did.’ Marcus said, not sitting down himself. ‘But I understand it. Don’t you?’

‘Unfortunately, yes. That does not mean I forgive it. Thou hast seen Maglor...what are thy feelings?’

‘The same...shame that I was taking him to Númenor, to my father. And...’ He looked away, but not before he saw Vanimöré nod.  
‘Yes, he was glorious, was he not? Thou hast seen nothing like him before, a star dropped into the heart of darkness. Thou couldst not resist him, that gem beyond price. And so I thought, also, and both of us dared to lay our unworthy hands upon him.’

‘I _didn’t want him to die_!’ Marcus whirled to face him, the little self-mocking smile in the eyes. ‘And then I did not want to let him go,’ he ended defiantly.

Their eyes clashed. ‘Neither did I,’ Vanimöré admitted softly.

‘I thought—‘ Marcus stopped. ‘Or I wanted to think, that—‘

‘Sauron would reward thee with Maglor Fëanorion,’ Vanimöré supplied. ‘I am uncertain if my versions in these new universes are overly optimistic, naive or simply stupid. Sauron needed his servants, his slaves, but he despised all of them: The Mouth, even the Nazgûl. Those he respected were those who did not bow to him or those whose minds could match his, such as Celebrimbor.’ And, as Marcus was silent, sifting memories: ‘Yes, thou wert jealous of Celebrimbor, no doubt. Sauron was incapable of love, an empath without sympathy, without pity. Even in these times there is no word for what he is. The minds of powers cannot be comprehended by humans. But Celebrimbor was the closest he came to love, and that through deep respect.’ He rose, filling the room, stretching it at the seams. he was not made for such places, but vast halls and thrones, the wideness of a forgotten world, the palaces of the gods.  
‘And thou didst love thy father, needed his approbation, his praise, even his love.’

‘He did,’ Marcus corrected steadily. ‘I do not.’

‘Just as well,’ Vanimöré said dry as dust, clearly sceptical. ‘When thy twin was dying, Sauron could have saved him. He had promised immortality and lied; it is a thing he does. Leon pleaded for his life and Sauron said: _You were a liability in your old life. Something went wrong somewhere. You clung; you were not strong enough. It was becoming the same here, a need to be loved..._ ‘

Marcus swallowed, throat arid. He took a quick gulp of the brandy, felt his cheeks hot as if from a slap.  
‘I don’t want to follow him,’ he said. ‘Why would I? I was not raised by him, I had love and praise and approbation from Vanya. I am not what he was, that Vanimöré, half-slave, half warrior, alone and lonely. But I want...’ He took a breath. ‘I want to be like _them_ , and the only way I can be is through immortality.’

‘Like them. Like the Elves.’

‘Yes.’ The old rage and frustration arose in him, a storm of emotions: never feeling as if he fitted in, different from the rest, and not by reason of his privileges, wanting more, wanting the world to be _different_. He had tried to accommodate and accept the world he was born into, but it looked and felt wrong, as if he were trying to squeeze himself into a badly tailored suit, too tight, too small, restricting him, cramping every move. When he was young he had not known the reason; now he did. He did not belong here.  
He said, ‘Vanya says that if I die here, as a Mortal I will go beyond and eventually ascend, in the end.’

Vanimöré shrugged, nodded. ‘It is the way of things.’

‘Very well, but I want to be with them. I am half-Elven, half Power —‘

‘Were,’ Vanimöré corrected. ‘Thy soul is that, but thou wert born a Mortal.’ His smile twisted coldly. ‘There were some Elves, in the old universe, born into Mortality as a punishment, and that I deplore. In these newer universes, it seems I was the one to punish. Or mostly.’

Knowing he trod dangerous ground, Marcus said, ‘Claire James.’ But Vanimórë’s eyes flashed with a certain appreciation.  
‘I do not know what special interest Eru has in Claire,’ he said slowly. ‘Or her foremother, Culina. Not yet. But I will. A goddess who came into being under the autumn sunset and first Harvest moon.’ His eyes went somewhere far away.

‘Yes,’ Marcus said quietly. ‘I’ve seen it.’

The violet eyes returned to his. ‘I really cannot be bothered with this,’ Vanimöré told him with a hint of boredom. ‘With thee. Claire I am concerned about, and I will remain here for Maglor and Tindómion.’

Marcus thought _You look and act like a heartless bastard, and it is no act, but there are a few you love._ It was in his voice when he spoke the names.

‘A few,’ Vanimöré agreed. ‘But most of those I loved are gone. No-one, nothing can bring them back.’ He came to the window, twitched aside the long drapes. Dawn mist lay like gossamer over the lawns.

‘You could.’

‘I did it before.’ Vanimöré turned his head, looked down. Marcus was tall at six feet three, but Vanimöré was yet taller. Again, Marcus was assailed by the feeling of being some kind of reject, an afterthought.  
‘I interfered before. I was born into Middle-earth, into that older universe...I put myself into it the only way I could.’ His voice faded. His eyes closed. ‘There are still things I cannot see, so much still to learn.’ Abruptly, he spun away, straight back, broad shoulders, slim, strong as woven steel. Marcus thought he would leave, then, but he swung back.  
‘Why didst thou join the VSO?’

There were many answers: He was too privileged, too coddled, too wealthy. Everything came to him too easily; he was rarely sick, and that when he was very young, and such episodes were brief and soon gone. The answers were true, but not all the truth, either. He lifted his chin. ‘It was dangerous,’ he said succinctly. ‘I wanted to know what I was made of, in such situations.’

Startlingly, laughter crackled into Vanimórë’s eyes. ‘Oh yes,’ he said ‘That is honest. And didst thou discover what thou art made of?’

‘I discovered killing people is too easy,’ Marcus said levelly. ‘That it meant nothing to me.’

Vanimöré pointed a finger directly at him. ‘And that,’ he said, ‘makes thee exactly the same as me.‘ It sounded like a curse. Or a prophecy. He walked away, black hair and hips swaying, lethal, powerful, and the air quivered and settled in his wake.

OooOooO


	8. ~ Shadows of the Edge ~

  
  
  
  


~ **Shadows of the Edge** ~ 

~ Kenny Barnes would have been in the mood to confront the well-dressed man who’d been watching him off and on for the last hour if he wasn’t, at heart, a coward. Not with horses; at the Clouds stables he was wary only of Rob Roi, but he was not the type to instigate a fight with other lads, or indeed anyone at all. He was, like many stable lads, strong, with wiry muscles, but not a troublemaker, nor did he seek it out.

He was a regular in the Star Inn, preferring it to the more formal (and expensive) Golden Lion down the road, and was here most nights. By now, he was used to the passing custom: bird-watchers, hikers, people staying at holiday cottages who (for some reason) enjoyed these remoter places. While he himself disliked the loneliness and isolation and would have preferred to work in Newmarket or Lambourne, the St. Clouds were well-known for paying well and looking after their staff. Twenty years experience had taught Kenny that this kind of situation was not to be sneezed at so he made the best of it and was in no hurry to move on.

The man occasionally eyeing him didn’t seem to be either tourist or ‘twitcher’. Forties, smart-casual, maybe a travelling businessman who had chosen to dress down for the evening; heavy gold watch, signet ring, thickset about the shoulders and waist.

There was an inch of lager left in Kenny’s pint glass, which he was making last although it was warm now, and flat. He was perpetually short of money, addicted to online gambling or the games machines that winked and beckoned in the pub’s dark corners. They’d taken the last of his money this evening, and he was broke now until pay day. Old man St. Cloud, when he was alive, was always good for a hand-out, but what the new owner would be like, Kenny didn’t know and the other staff had learned, in the last year, to be chary of lending money which he always meant to pay back but somehow never did.

The man observing him lifted his own glass and ordered, then nodded toward Paul. ‘And a pint of whatever he’s having. And a Bells.’

Kenny licked his lips, then jutted them, would-be pugnacious, but waited until the glasses were on the counter and the server had drifted away.  
‘Cheers mate, but I don’t bat for your team.’ Nevertheless, he took a long gulp of the fresh pint.

‘Too much information. But neither do I.’ The man had a London accent. ‘In fact, I’m just looking for someone round these parts who might like to make some easy money. Very easy.’

‘Oh, yeah? Well, I don’t give racing tips,’ Kenny sneered. ‘Mugs game, that. And, as far as I know, the Clouds horses won’t be running until the estate’s sorted out anyhow.’

‘Oh, nothing like that,’ he was assured. ‘Nothing illegal. Shall we take a seat?’ He put out a hand. ‘Clive Reynolds.’ When Kenny did not shake, he withdrew a wallet, which was thick with plastic and cash and slid out a business card.

_Clive Reynolds. Renholt Ltd._

Kenny shrugged. The names meant nothing to him, but there was a certain air of authenticity in the card and a great deal more in the contents of the wallet. He picked up his glasses. ‘Okay.’  
  
Clive settled himself, looked around.  
‘My employer,’ he said, ‘Is simply interested in someone we believe is at the Clouds.’  
  
‘Yeah? Well, since the accident, there’s government-types up there. And they’re not seeing anyone much. Couple of owners came to the stables, not up to the house.’  
  
‘And do you think that a little odd?’  
  
Kenny took a sip of the whiskey. ‘Everyone knows Leon St. Cloud worked for the government,’ he said. ‘Not sure exactly what he did, but when he died and then the St. Clouds.’ He shrugged. ‘Who knows? Anyhow, we’re still being paid and rumour is this long-lost son’ll keep everything going.’  
  
The man nodded patiently. He had left his wallet on the table. The edges of bank notes showed. Kenny’s eyes strayed to them.  
‘Who’re you looking for?’ he asked. ‘Some guys came yesterday.’ Rubbing fingers and thumb together. ‘Don’t know who they are. Maybe friends of this new boy, Marcus. He came with his foster mum, whatever.’ He waggled his eyebrows. ‘Foster mum my arse. Wouldn’t mind a bit of that myself, know what I mean?’  
  
‘The man I’m looking for drives a black Bentley Continental. Top of the range.’  
  
Kenny gave him unimpressed. ‘Well, the bloodstock world’s full of money.’ He drank a little more. ‘But yeah, one of the guys drove a Bentley. He’s still there.’  
  
‘Have you seen him?’ Clive Reynolds had eyes of a shallow pebble-brown. They were fixed, now, and intent.  
  
Kenny shook his head. ‘Not myself, no. Not close up. They had a look round the stables last night and were in the next pub, the Lion, last night, some of them.’  
  
‘My employer,’ Clive said. ‘Would very much like to know what this man does, where he goes, who he talks to.’  
  
‘Why?’  
  
‘Business. Personal...and business.’  
  
Kenny laughed, drained his pint. ‘And this is what you’re willing to pay money for, is it?’ he asked skeptically.  
  
‘Not me, my employer. But yes. It’s rather personal and the man is pretty secretive.’  
  
‘Well, I ain’t going to get involved in any government malarkey,’ Kenny stated, faintly alarmed.  
  
‘Nothing like that. Lucien Steele is just incredibly...elusive. You’ve never heard the name?’  
  
Kenny shrugged. ‘Can’t say I have, no. And he can’t be that elusive, if he was drinking down the Lion last night.’  
  
‘Well, I only arrived today,’ Clive said. ‘Well, about time for another. I’ve a room, so I don’t have to worry about drinking. Another pint, is it?’  
  
There were several more. At eleven o clock Kenny, belching slightly on beery gasses, wandered back to the stables with two hundred pounds in his pocket, a new number on his phone, and a promise of more money to come if some useful information was forthcoming. He felt optimistic and on the side of the angels in this, since the info Clive Reynolds wanted seemed harmless enough to him. He wandered across the road a couple of times, but had a good head for beer and was up early for morning stables. It was something ‘lads’ learned to do.  
  
‘...Claire...’ A mumble of words outside the stable door, and her voice answering: ‘Just friends of Marcus’, I think..’  
  
Kenny moved to the door, saw Claire walking past. He, and some of the others had made approaches when she first came, but she’d refused them all, politely but firmly. She was friendly enough, but not up for anything more. Sometimes she baked excellent cakes which she bought to the stables, and joined a crowd for a birthday drink in one of the pubs, but no-one had ever stayed over in the little cottage and left in the morning.  
  
He shut the loose-box door behind him and caught up with her.  
‘Hey, Claire, I heard they went to the cottage last night. They’re not tuning you out are they?’  
  
‘No, nothing like that,’ she said, heading for the tack room. ‘I met a few of them down the Lion last night, and invited them to see it.’  
  
‘What was he like?’ Kenny pressed. ‘This Marcus?’  
  
‘Very pleasant.’ She replaced the curry comb and and brush. Rob Roi was in for a visit from the farrier. ‘They all were.’ She turned to face him with her clear grey gaze. ‘I wouldn’t worry, Kenny.’  
  
He shrugged. ‘Yeah, well, spent most of his time abroad, hasn’t he? Are the others his friends?’  
  
Something changed in Claire’s eyes and Kenny remembered her previous job. She must have learned that look then: cool, guarded, giving nothing away.  
‘I’m honestly not sure, Kenny.’  
  
‘Only...’ He floundered. ‘Well, I heard one of ‘em’s Lucien Steele.’ He lowered his voice. ‘Multi-billionaire. Maybe he’s looking to buy the place up.’  
  
‘I wouldn’t know anything about that, but why worry? He’s clearly an extremely successful businessman.’  
  
A couple of the girls entered, with Lola at their heels, brisk as a spring-cleaning broom and Lenny left before she collared him. He wasn’t too disheartened, although getting any information from Claire (if she even knew anything) was going to be difficult. But as long as the mysterious Mr. Steele was staying at the house, there would be opportunities.  
  
When, later, he saw her from his dorm-room window, changed from working gear, walking up from the cottage to the main house, he scratched his cheek thoughtfully. He had been going down to the village, but no harm in hanging around. It would be to his advantage if he could tell Clive Reynolds something tonight as he’d said he was going back to London tomorrow. More cash was always good.  
  
  
  


**OooOooO**

~ Vanimöré and Vanya cooked that evening and eleven sat down to eat at the immense dining table in a room that still smelled faintly musty and, north facing, was gloomy despite the bright evening, the windows that had been forced open, shedding flakes of paint. Howard and the four hard-eyed, close-mouthed men joined them, but there was little conversation, until Marcus looked across at Howard and said, ‘How did my brother manage to fool you?’

Howard was jolted from his appreciation of the food (Vanya was an excellent chef and Vanimöré, though his tastes had been formed of hunger and semi-starvation, could at least follow her instructions), and dabbed his mouth. He shot a look at Vanimöré who returned a bland smile, and cleared his throat.  
‘He completely checked out,’ he said shortly. ‘He was born to a normal — if eccentric — family. He was clever, good at anything he set his hand to. Ticked all the boxes, flew through the interviews and tests. We didn’t know he had contacted...’ His eyes flicked to his men. ‘The enemy. It must have been before he came up as a potential agent. But there were no red flags. None.’

Marcus nodded. ‘I see.’

Vanya sat back, taking a sip of her wine. ‘I can assure you,’ she said in her mellifluous, accented voice. ‘Marcus has not contacted him.’

Howard raised a hand. ‘Madam, I take your word for it. You’ve a better screen that we have. If you ever want a job...’ He pushed his chair back as she laughed. ‘If you’ll excuse me. I have a lot of reports to get through.’ He jerked his head to his men and they followed.

Alone, they dropped their glamour. Vanimöré was startled to observe that Marcus himself looked different, more like _himself_ , eyes darkening toward violet, hair flowing, his features even more clear cut. It was disturbing, to look at an almost-but-not-quite mirror of himself, and reminded him of how the _Khadakhir_ had changed after taking his blood. They remained themselves but more so, refined toward godhood, he had called it in his mind. It was always with a pang of grief he thought of them; he had loved them all, and what had his intervention done for them? Selfish, selfish.

Maglor’s brows had snapped together, fine hands tense, the air darkening around his inner storm. Marcus looked around the table and sat back, slamming down his cutlery.  
‘Alright,’ he said tautly. ‘What is it now?’

And Vanimöré realised he did not know what he had done, that he was not controlling it. Vanya said placidly: ‘It surprised me too.’ She rose, gesturing to Marcus and lead him to an old fly-spotted mirror in a corner of the room. Setting her hands on his shoulders she positioned him in front of it. He looked, and froze. He must be accustomed to his reflection — and this was clearly not usual.  
‘What?’ he flung round. ‘Why?’

‘I am not sure why,’ Vanya admitted. ‘But since we came here...’ She lifted her hands, glanced at Vanimöré, who glared back at her private communication: _He reacts to thee, because he is like thee and wishes to_ be _thee._

He cast up his eyes, began to gather the empty plates, taking them into the kitchen where he placed them in the deep stone sink. When the door opened, it was not, as he half-expected Vanya or Marcus, but Edenel, who joined him, washing and drying.

‘What dost thou sense?’ Vanimöré asked after a while.

Edenel turned his beautiful, fated head a little. For all his fire-blanched whiteness, his likeness to Fëanor and Fingolfin too, was breathtaking, painful.  
‘His past existence does impinge in this one, and...clashes with it. He hates that former life and yet it is _him_ far more than this one. He is uncomfortable in this form, Vanimöré.’

Vanimöré nodded. ‘Vanya wishes me to bestow immortality — and apotheosis upon him.’

Edenel frowned. ‘And thou hast refused.’

‘Even if I agreed to, I think it would simply kill him and more, tear his soul apart,’ Vanimöré said shortly. ‘Thou knowest what all of thee endured before apotheosis, which was why thou wert ready for it. And he has lived what — not even twenty five years?’

‘And several thousand in his old life,’ Edenel murmured. ‘I cannot blame him for wanting to return to what he was.’

‘What he _was_ , was Sauron’s flunky.’

‘Not that, the immortality, the truth of his blood, Sauron’s son or no.’ Edenel’s eyes were opaque as frost, then expression came back into them. He laid both hands each side of Vanimórë’s face. ‘Thou canst not unmake thyself, my dear. Wilt thou kill every other Vanimöré because thou canst not do that one thing thou doth long to?’

‘Yes,’ Vanimöré said without hesitation. ‘And thou knowest I would. And will.’

Edenel shook his head slowly, eyes still on Vanimórë’s, then slid a hand behind his head drew them together, kissed him.  
‘Thinks’t thou I can ever forgive _myself_ for not doing more?’ he said, after. ‘For not saving more, for watching torment and death and being unable to do anything, for enacting the perfect slave because I was waiting for a time to escape? And before that, for running away from my people because I was jealous and unable to face either my brother or the hopes of Míriel and Indis which I believed were doomed and I did not want to disappoint them. I thought the situation was unbearable. What did I know? We were as children.’ He drew back a little, beautiful mouth twisted into wry bitterness. ‘And winter entered my soul in Utumno, and has never left it.’ The Winter King, foil to Coldagnir’s power of the Sun, power over the ice, the snow, the black storms in the darkness of the year.

‘There was nothing thou couldst have done but survive,’ Vanimöré said roughly. ‘Not in Utumno, not ranged against the powers who denned there. As it was, thou didst save some.’

‘Was it enough? Why only those I had been — or was — close to?’ Edenel wondered. ‘And no, I could not have set myself against Melkor or Sauron, and yet...in some worlds I did sire Fëanor and Fingolfin. I remained with my people, or found my way back to then, after. Do not hate thyself, Vanimöré. Neither for the Dagor Dagorath or for trusting Eru. Many of us loved him.’

‘It is not that, Edenel.’ Vanimöré drew away, leaned over the sink and wringing out the dishcloth so violently it tore. ‘Nothing...was the same between Elgalad and I after his supposed return from death. How could it have been? I am not some lover languishing over a betrayal. It is not the loss of love, it is that I was fool enough to believe it. And...’ He shook his head. ‘It is not important.’

‘I beg to differ,’ Edenel said, but Vanimöré turned, collecting plates and dishes to put away. In his mind’s eye he saw his father’s elusive smile, knowing. Knowing him better than anyone else.  
‘There are more vital things.’

Edenel joined him and they worked in silence until the kitchen was clean, all the surfaces spotless. They went out, then, into the warm evening, turning east, toward the salt-marshes and the coast. There was a lawn behind the house, a couple of sheds, an old yew hedge enclosing the whole. A gate lead out, a path wandering across land that became reed beds, wetlands cut with water channels; it crossed a trackway with the acorn sign of a public footpath that ran north-south. Almost a mile away, beyond a low bank of dunes, the sea glimmered.  
Here, there were no great cliffs to repel the restless forces of the ocean, no such powerful demarcation, only the patient implacability of the cold waters beyond, bright in the early evening sun, but not calm, not tame.

Down along the sand Vanimöré saw the bronze and black heads of Tindómion and Maglor walking side by side.

I have to return them to glory,’ he said. ‘To their family. And then...But first, the second Silmaril.’

‘Thou couldst see it from the Outside,’ Edenel ventured. ‘Locate it, retrieve it as thou didst before, but...’

‘Yes, _but_. Maglor needs no-one to help him find it; it is his birthright. His heritage.’

The wind blew up from the south, gusty, warm. Birds called and piped from the reeds, wheeled in white flecks above the grey-green waters that creamed and curled against the sand. A lonely place. There was no movement on the beach save Maglor and Tindómion until a shape crested one of the small dunes, and stopped. Rob Roi with Claire astride. The stallion’s mane and tail rippled; his head was raised. He stood as Seran used to on the sands of the Harad, eager, nostrils quivering. Vanimöré murmured, _’ He saith among the trumpets, Ha, ha; and he smelleth the battle afar off, the thunder of the captains, and the shouting._ ‘

After a moment, Claire guided him down onto the beach. She raised one hand, and Maglor and Tindómion walked to meet her. She bent her head to talk to them.

‘What is Elgalad’s especial interest in Claire?’ Edenel wondered under his breath as she turned the stallion southward and he trotted, then cantered down the sand, away from them.

‘I do not know, yet.’ Vanimöré watched as they retreated, becoming smaller, smaller against the faint haze, a toy-sized horse and rider in the immensity of sea and sky, and then Claire turned him back, and let him go. The faint hoof beats, muffled by the hard-packed sand, became louder, the flying shape larger as he tore up the beach. Maglor and Tindómion stood aside as he passed, a falcon-horse, all that power driving into piston-muscles to race the south wind itself.

He flew up the sand toward Vanimöré and Edenel, passed in a whack of air, an earthquake of hooves, racing on, up toward the top of the beach where it faded into the water, then slowing, turning, neck arched, tail pluming, prancing. Claire patted his neck, and came back at a long-striding walk.

She was flushed, eyes bright as the rim between sea and sky, as she pulled up and greeted them.

‘You both enjoyed that,’ Vanimöré smiled, resting a hand on the stallion’s warm, silky neck.

She nodded agreement, eyes moving to Edenel with that same expression of hazy, not-quite memory.

‘Eden Dale,’ he said, and she leaned to shake his hand.

‘Claire,’ she said. ‘Claire James.’

‘Pleased to meet you,’ Edenel smiled.

They walked alongside her, meeting up with Maglor and Tindómion and taking the path over the dunes, through the marsh.

‘Monica said Robin knew all the paths here,’ Claire said. ‘But then, so did she. I like bringing him down to the beach by this route, but I’m not keen on the marshes, especially in the mist or rain. She suggested taking him down Peddars Way.’ She pointed. ‘That walking trail, there. The coastal part begins just a few miles north, and then along around the coast almost down to Lowestoft. I took him a couple of times in the autumn, but...’

‘Peddars Way,’ Maglor said, ‘Black Shuck.’ Claire looked at him and a smile lit her face but with an intense undercurrent beneath.  
‘You’ve heard of it? Yes.’ Her hands tightened on the reins slightly. ‘Sometimes you’ll hear people in the pubs, walkers, locals swear they’ve seen it. Or, you know, friend of a friend. But in winter, when it’s gloomy or foggy...’

 _Yes, thou didst always feel the land, the legends, Claire,_ Vanimöré thought. Black Shuck, the Hell Hound that haunted lonely highways and byways, crossroads, the gaps in dark woodland, the margins of the sea, the wind-singing moors. To see it was supposed to bring death or ill-luck.  
‘When you have finished,’ he said. “Perhaps,’ and he sent the thought to Vanya. ‘You would like to come up to the house for a drink? We owe you for your hospitality the other evening. There have been some shopping trips,’ he added, for she must know the St. Clouds erratic housekeeping.

She laughed. ‘Thank you, yes. I’d like that.’

She arrived at the house an hour later, casually smart and her bright hair loose. Vanimöré and Edenel had unearthed some garden furniture from one of the sheds and washed it down, and ice buckets and some nibbles were laid out. Coldagnir, who had been away on a shopping trip, joined them, introducing himself to Claire with a warm smile.

‘Shouldn’t _I_ have invited her?’ Marcus had whispered inside, when Vanimöré came in.

‘I thought thou and I were the same,’ Vanimöré returned dryly. ‘Any objection?’

‘Of course not. Oh, forget it,’ Marcus flung up his hands and stalked away. Vanimöré stifled a smile.

There was chilled Prosecco, champagne, a selection of craft beers to accompany the snacks. They settled in their chairs half in the shade of one of the great cedars. It was one of those late spring evenings of sunlight on moving leaves, the smell of warm earth, blossom, the subliminal breathing of the sea. Vanya smelled of the incense of forgotten temples, Claire like the spring itself.  
‘What a gorgeous evening,’ she murmured. ‘I love this time of day. Not too hot. They say it’ll be a hot summer this year.’

‘It will be a good summer,’ Coldagnir said. ‘I have it on the best authority.’

‘Not too hot, I hope,’ she protested. ‘I tend to wilt.’

‘Not too hot for you, Claire.’ He blazed a smile. ‘I give my word.’

As the evening deepened to the long, pale gloaming before dark, they spoke of politics, of poetry and books, of the history of this region, of the horses. Claire was easy with them; her common-sense, thought Vanimöré, was telling her she had only just met them, her instincts, older, deeper, (and truer) were signalling something quite different.

‘You’ve both walked Peddars Way?’ Claire was saying to Maglor.

‘Several times,’ Maglor nodded. An understatement; he must have walked these shores since before the Romans began draining the great Fenland basin, when the land was wild and dangerous. And so must Tindómion have done. Neither were likely to meet anything more dangerous than themselves, but dark things walked in the shadows even now — and more so in ancient times.  
‘I was going to walk as much of the UK coast as I could, this year,’ Tindómion slanted a look at his father. ‘But I met with...an old friend.’

Claire’s eyes went from one to the other. It would be unrealistic to admit their kinship since both looked the same age, but it was blindingly obvious they were related.

‘You did not like riding that way,’ Maglor prompted.

Something, the alcohol lowering her barriers a little, perhaps, promoted Claire to speak.  
‘Honestly, no. It was late October, in fact it was Halloween. How apt!’ She turned in her seat. ‘Up there, the track goes inland a little. There was rain on the air; it was a dark, misty day, one of those days when it never seems to get really light, and the darkness comes early. Robin had been fine for the first mile or so, fresh but that’s quite normal with him.’ (Affectionately) ‘Until we got to this one particular place where the track went into some trees. I saw nothing, but suddenly the hair lifted on the back of my neck. I spooked, and so did he.’ She raised her brows in memory, twisted a whorl of hair about one finger. ‘Maybe he was picking up on my fear. But he wasn’t like some horses, who just want to turn and go home, it was not fear with him, but aggression. It felt as if someone: a hiker, a dog, or _anything_ came into view he might attack them. He was snorting, half rearing like a war horse. It was...very strange, and unnerving, but it was an odd, dark place.’ She raised her chin, looked around them. ‘Or that was how it felt to _me_. Imagination? Perhaps but...’ She lifted one shoulder. ‘I turned him, came back. And since then, no I haven’t liked going that way. I prefer taking him down to the beach and giving him a good gallop. Early or later, when there’s few people about. There’s usually walkers on Peddars Way, whatever time of year, so the beach is better anyhow.’ But her mouth folded into a self-mocking smile.

Vanya said, ‘Don’t think you are being imaginative, my dear Claire.’ And for a moment her voice and eyes took on the earth-deep wisdom of the Mother. Claire sat very still, staring at her. ‘This is a haunted land, a liminal land.’ She cast one hand out in a gesture that encompassed everything. ‘You stayed in the house, and felt it, did you not?’

Claire moved, looked at Marcus. ‘I did, but I don’t want to put you off your own house,’ she laughed self-deprecatingly. ‘All old places have their memories, after all.’

‘Please, it’s fine, I do understand,’ Marcus said. ‘Our house in Perpignan felt a little the same. It doesn’t bother me, but I do feel it, yes.’

Claire’s eyes narrowed, but something she saw relaxed her. She looked over her shoulder at the Clouds, its grey stone pallid in the late light, but a looming presence now, and Vanimórë heard her mind-whisper: _Something trapped in the walls_ , before she spoke. ‘Well, thank you so much. It’s been a lovely evening, but I have to go. Stable hours, you know.’ She smiled.

They walked her back, slowly, pausing to watch Rob Roi in the paddock, immense and beautiful. He raised his head and whickered. _He is like a guardian,_ Vanimöré thought, as much as the old, bowering trees.

‘Didst thou ever see it?’ he asked Maglor and Tindómion as they returned to the house. ‘Black Shuck?’

‘It is not a ghost, not just a legend,’ Tindómion replied and his father nodded: ‘It is something out of ancient times, out of the dark of Angband.’

‘The lineage of Drauglin and Carcharoth,’ Marcus said, Once again surprising Vanimöré. ‘Some things have survived, yes? Vanya says so. Thuringwethil did. They are not altogether _real_ , some of them, perhaps an energy that can take form. Clearly Claire sensed it and so did Rob Roi.’ And then: ‘He is so like Seran.’

Vanimöré’s head snapped to him. ‘Thou didst have a stallion of that name?’

‘I...yes. He did. Didn’t you know?’

‘I am dead in most worlds, and in the Void,’ Vanimöré said curly. ‘That is all I know, or need to know. I am not interested in my life in those worlds. It is never very edifying.’

‘Well, _yes_ , I did have a stallion called Seran,’ Marcus flashed. ‘And I know you did. And I wonder if somehow, his bloodline survived. It would be unlikely, I know, but looking at him...’

‘Perhaps,’ Vanimöré said, then turning to Maglor and Tindómion: ‘Thou hast encountered it, then? This Black Shuck?’

‘More than once,’ Maglor nodded. ‘But the first time was not long after I came here — at least, I had been here before, of course, but before the cataclysm that filled the North Sea and drowned what they now call Doggerland.’ Vanimöré nodded. Maglor went on: ‘The Romans used Peddars Way to march through East Anglia after defeating the Iceni tribe, but it is older than them; the natives had used it too, and even then they called it perilous.’ His voice fell into the cadences of a trained bard weaving a tale around a hearth fire on a winter’s night.  
‘The people spoke of a demon in the form of a great hound or wolf that stalked the track with eyes like coals in a dying fire, or sometimes it was just a noise of great paws padding, a cold shadow in the trees and reed beds. There were stories of hunters going out after wildfowl who vanished and were found dead with terrible marks on them: burns, claws and a look of terror frozen on their faces. And so, it was one night in early spring I came this way with a companion, and the mist came down thick. There was once a Roman Fort and way station at Brancaster, which I had hoped to reach, and so we went on.’

There were crows on the roof of The Clouds, raucous, squabbling before nightfall. The other birds had fallen silent and the breeze had dropped. Abruptly, they lifted off in a black flurry. A feather drifted down.

‘It must have been not far from here,’ (Maglor said) ‘Perhaps in the very same place Claire felt it. At first it was a sense that I must be more aware, alert, that there was danger and then it was as if an icy blackness formed in the fog and two glowing lights. Eyes, but standing far taller than any hound. It seemed to solidify a little, bringing with it a wave of terror and despair and I thought then, yes, that I had come upon some relict of the Fell Wolves of Morgoth. I could see its great fangs, saw it crouch to spring, the eyes, more intelligent than either dog or wolf, clever with an old malice. And so, I used my voice to defy it; I cast away my glamour.’

‘And what happened?’ Marcus asked, a little breathlessly.

I drove it back,’ Maglor said simply. ‘I heard the snarl and rush of it as it fled, and then nothing...the mist began to clear, the heaviness and blackness retreated, and I pressed on to the fort. Was it thus with thee?’ he asked his son.

‘Very much the same,’ Tindómion agreed sombrely. ‘Although some years later.’ He ran a hand down Maglor’s back. ‘Thou art still what thou wert, the power of thee.’

‘Yes,’ Vanimöré said strongly. ‘Always. The both of thee. And thy companion? Thou must have trusted them.’

A faint smile. ‘I had little choice in what I did, but yes, I trusted him. And he knew what I was and never betrayed me. And there were other times, not only here, there are legends of these hounds all over the country, and in other places, too. But after that first time, it gave back when it sensed me.’ Tindómion nodded agreement.

At the door of the house, Marcus stopped, looked back through the dark garden.

‘What is it?’ Vanimöré asked, a little mocking. ‘Ghosts?’

‘No,’ Marcus snapped. ‘Someone from the stables I think, slipping away...’ He frowned. ‘Rather rude to spy on us, don’t you think?’

**OooOooO**

  
  
  
  
  
  
Norfolk coastline, very much how I envisage the beach where Claire galloped Rob Roi. As you can see there are marshes and wetlands behind it. In this fic, as written there are paths through it, one of which they took.  
  
[](https://postimages.org/)  
  
  
  
Lonely Peddars Way in Norfolk, haunt of ‘Black Shuck’. It was probably somewhere like this that Claire and Rob Roi (and long before, Maglor and Tindómion) sensed it.  


[](https://postimages.org/)  
  
  
Visual for ‘The Clouds’ gaunt, unwelcoming, although this is actually Nannau Hall in North Wales, but fits perfectly with my idea of The Clouds.  
  
  
[](https://postimg.cc/c6PY86rZ)  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Maglor’s long-ago companion on Peddars Way is a faint reference to Maglor’s companion, Felix, in Narya_Flame’s 
> 
> Fire on the Mountain:  
>   
> https://archiveofourown.org/works/20775047  
>   
> I am not saying it is Felix, just a reference that he has had friends over the millennia. Hope you don’t mind, Narya!


	9. ~ Shadows under the Clouds ~

  
  
  
  


**~ Shadows under the Clouds ~**

‘No,’ Kenny said. ‘The only person they seem to talk to is Lola, and she only tells us what we need to know. She’s not a gossip. But what I’m trying to tell you is that _Claire_ was invited up to the house this evening. I tried to listen, but couldn’t hear much.’ He fed more coins into the fruit machine, the bells and whistles and electronic music hiding their conversation, though it was late and there were few people in the bar.

‘Not good enough,’ Clive Reynolds said. ‘So, who’s this Claire, and why would they invite her, out of anyone?’

Kenny didn’t take his eyes off the machine, and cursed as it ate his last money.  
‘Claire James? She was a barrister. More their type,’ with a sneer. ‘But she’s nice enough. She’s on a gap year, but she’s the only person not even a bit nervous around that black bastard Rob Roi.’ He smacked the machine in annoyance. ‘The St. Clouds top stallion. He’s dangerous, or maybe he just doesn’t like blokes. The old lady could handle him too, and he’s sweet as a nut with Claire.’ He didn’t like admitting nervousness for a horse, but _everyone_ was a little afraid of Rob Roi.

‘And you heard nothing at all?’ Clive pressed.

Kenny rolled his eyes. ‘Don’t know what I’m supposed to hear. They had a few drinks, talked like old friends. Maybe she knew them in her old job. _I_ don’t know. She keeps her mouth shut, had to, I expect, in her old job.’

‘Maybe, but you’d be surprised how many tongues money can unlock.’ The shallow pebble-eyes raked him. ‘Or maybe not. Broke again? The house always wins, Ken, didn’t you know?’

‘Oh, fuck off, and how the fuck am I supposed to know what information you want?’ Kenny flashed. What he didn’t say was that he wasn’t keen to get any closer than he already had. There was something about that crew up at the house that unnerved him; the tall men, the glamorous woman. He’d seen plenty of wealthy owners in his time, up to and including the Aga Khan and Saudi sheiks, but these...they were something else again. Although he had not seen them close-up, his impression was that they did not look quite _real_ , as if they came from some planet where everything was brighter, richer. The train of his thought derailed then jumped back on as the bar door opened to a latecomer. ‘Well, screw me,’ he muttered. ‘It’s the new boy. Marcus St. Cloud. Must’ve got away from his foster mum,’ he leered.

The young man ought to have looked out of place, instead he appeared to own it, and Kenny’s thoughts tumbled into a morass of confusion and something close to fear. He wondered if Marcus St. Cloud used contact lenses; the blue of his eyes, shading toward purple, was too brilliant, the lashes thick as the false ones some of the girls affixed on staff nights out.

The manager, also the barman on this quiet weekday, wiped his hands down and responded to Marcus’ greeting with smiling reserve, as if greeting a celebrity. He served a half-pint of bitter and the two talked for a moment. Clive Reynolds eyed them for a few minutes, before making his way casually to the bar and ordering two last drinks as ‘time’ was called. He said something to Marcus who glanced around and brought his own drink over to where Kenny stood, now smiling a little sickly.

The too-blue eyes focussed on him. ‘You work for the stud, don’t you?’ That faint French accent in the smooth, deep voice.

‘That’s right, sir. Kenny—‘

‘Barnes,’ ended Marcus and switched his gaze to Clive with a little lift of one perfect black brows.

‘Clive, just passing through to London.’ They shook hands. ‘I understand you’re the new owner of the Clouds?’ He gestured. ‘It’s all anyone can talk about round here. That and you might sell up.’ At the silence, he continued: ‘To Apollyon Enterprises.’

‘Not at all,’ Marcus replied levelly. ‘Mr. Steele was an acquaintance of my brother.’

‘Ah, I see. My condolences. Must have been a shock.’

‘I never knew him. Or my parents. Do you know Lucien Steele, yourself?’

Clive Reynolds barked a laugh. ‘Gawd, no. Didn’t think anyone did, to be honest with you. No, just on my way down from Lincoln.’

Marcus’ smile was thin-edged. ‘Not many people do know him, Clive.’ he made the name sound like an insult ‘I doubt think he’s easy to know. Or that it’s wise to approach him.’

Kenny, barely repressing a chortle, shot a look at Clive who was nodding ruminatively. Marcus bent his head in a charming gesture of dismissal and farewell and passed through the connecting door to the lounge.

‘So, what the hell info do you want?’ Kenny hissed as the door closed. ‘If I knew—‘

Clive ignored the question. ‘Leon St. Cloud worked for the government, and knew Lucien Steele.’ He spoke quietly, almost to himself.

Kenny shrugged. ‘So they say.’

‘The Clouds, the house, is there security?’ Clive asked in an undertone.

‘The stables have, of course, and there’s four government guys in the house, or around it, sometimes. But not the house, no. They rarely even locked their doors, the St. Clouds.’

Clive nodded again. ‘Good enough,’ he murmured. ‘Well, be seeing you, Ken. You have my number.’ He brought out his phone and after a moment looked up. ‘There you go: A grand in your bank account, Ken-boy. There’ll be more if you cough up some real info, or help the boys when they arrive.’

‘What boys?’ Kenny asked, alarmed.

Clive said soothingly, but with a cold grin: ‘Just some boys up from town. Might want to have a word with Mr. Lucien Steele.’ He pushed his face closer to Kenny’s. ‘My boss, you see, he lost his son, and thinks Steele killed the boy. Oh, all hushed up. Would be wouldn’t it? The man’s got money. But so’s my boss, and it’ll be worth your while to lend a hand, show the boys the house, yes?’

‘Wait a minute—‘

The ‘middle-aged businesses-man’ persona had been a facade, Kenny saw. This man was tough as nails and hard, the threat implicit in his voice.  
‘Old man Roberts, he’s good to those who are loyal, and a bit of money coming in, you could do with that, couldn’t you, Ken-boy? On the other hand, he’s well upset about his son’s death, and he’s not a man to be crossed, know what I’m saying?’ His meaty hand suddenly came up and delivered a slap that made Kenny’s head ring, then closed his fingers on Kenny’s jaw. ‘If you know what's good for you, you keep schtum, alright?’ Then he pushed off and leaned on the bar. ‘Hey, Harry, get our Ken a double! Put it on my bill.’

Kenny watched, sucking blood from the inside of his mouth as Clive Reynolds passed through the rear door which lead upstairs to the guest’s rooms. He turned, pointed two fingers like a gun, then he was gone. After a swollen minute of rage and fear, Kenny gulped down his pint and went to the bar for the double whiskey.

OooOooO

‘Thou didst hide Leon from me,’ Vanimöré said. ‘Why?’

‘To see if thou wouldst like thyself, or some aspect of it, my dear.’

He wrapped the frayed curtain cord around his fingers, twisted it like a noose. ‘So, he was a trial run?’

Vanya, tilted her head.  
‘I kept an eye on him, she answered indirectly. ‘And I was sorry for him, that boy, growing up in this house, sent away to school, although that might have been the best thing for him. At least he ate better. And there was his great uncle, too. Yet I think...I believe — and will always believe — that he might have followed thee, had he been given the chance.’

Vanimöré shook his head. ‘No,’ he said softly. ‘Not when he begged Sauron. I did, once, I could have told him what would happen.’

She looked at him under her lashes. ‘Poor boy.’

‘He made his choice, Vanya. We all do.’

‘Or are they made for us? Where was mine?’

He stared at her.

‘I did not choose to be enthralled to Melkor and Sauron’s will for thousands of years. Thou didst kill me.’ Her words fell like frost between them. ‘Or they made thee think it, but I had to wander Middle-earth for thousands of years, half-mad, only remembering thy face, knowing I had to find thee — to release me. I received mine own apotheosis from thee, although I found myself only truly in the pit of Ungoliant’s belly. My spirit did travel to Valinor. It had to; I had to know that place as well as Middle-earth, and I drifted in the Gardens of Lórien, until Ungoliant came. She devoured me, and I allowed it, because I knew she could not consume me. And there was Dana.’ Her voice went hard as metal. ‘She who took on the mantle of the Mother, who raped thee and abused thee for so long. I wanted to be close to her when she was ended. I wanted to see her terror.’ She glanced up at him, a glint of brilliant eyes. ‘I was. And I did. For thou didst come, and I always knew thou wouldst, to imprison her on the Outside, and bring me back to the world.’ *

‘My dear,’ he said helplessly.

‘Sometimes there is a choice, yes,’ she ended gently. ‘Sometimes there is the greater pull of destiny. And all that entails.’

‘And dost thou think that Marcus’ destiny is to be what he was, and more, a god? Thou couldst do it thyself, could have done it before now,’ Vanimöré stated. ‘If thou art so certain, so sure he should be gifted immortality, why hast thou not given him thine own blood?’

A full moon lit the garden silver; black shadows gathered like conspirators under the trees. There should have been two or three of Howard’s men patrolling the grounds, but Vanimöré said they were not needed with all of them here, and they had taken the evening off.

He turned from the window to his sister, who crossed her elegant legs one over the other. ‘It should be obvious, brother-mine. I am the Feminine principle. Marcus is a man.’ She raised a hand. ‘If he were one of those who think he was born into the wrong gender, then perhaps, yes. If he were born a woman, then of course. But as it is, we are not compatible. Not many men could encompass it, Vanimöré, as I think thou wouldst admit.’ She flashed a little smile.

‘True enough,’ he admitted after a moment and smiled reluctantly. ‘Very well, I have no argument, unfortunately.’

‘Yes some things _are_ unarguable,’ she agreed. ‘Yes, there are others who could bestow immortality, which _is_ his destiny. I speak as the Mother, Vanimöré. But better if it is thee. And only thou canst grant apotheosis.’

‘Me, or Eru.’

Vanya’s eyes veiled. ‘Yes, or Eru.’

‘I would not do it,’ he said. ‘Do not look thus innocently at me. Thou knowest what I mean.’

‘Yes,’ she murmured. ‘After all, we do not know exactly what he wants, do we?’

‘I think I do know.’ He paced the room. ‘And I think, soon, I will know what to do. After all,’ he grimaced faintly. ‘I already did it.’

The door opened. Marcus strode in, looked from one to the other.  
‘I think we have a problem,’ he said.

Vanimöré raised his brows eliciting a faint, annoyed flush.

‘I told you someone was spying on us in the garden, earlier. I followed them down to the village, to the Star, one of the pubs. A lad called Kenny Barnes. He’s been here a few years, one of the longest serving of the staff.’ To Vanimöré: ‘I went through all the staff records when we came. He’s not one of the best, or the worse. Perpetually broke, though, I understand. He has a gambling addiction. Tonight he was talking in the bar to a man who seemed _quite_ interested in you.’

‘Yes? And thou art thinking this Kenny is being paid to pass on information about me?’

‘All the staff have been told they’re being kept on, so why would he try to eavesdrop on us?’

‘And the man?’ Vanya questioned.

‘Middle-aged, stocky, well-dressed, Londoner. The manager said he was a businessman on his way back to London from Lincoln, staying a couple of nights, and is leaving tomorrow. This place is off the beaten track — one needs a reason to come here.’

‘Truly,’ Vanimöré murmured. ‘It will not be Sauron. Not yet, or I doubt it.’ Because he would never try to second-guess his father, in any incarnation.

‘Who, then?’ Marcus demanded.

‘Howard said that the father of the man killed in the quarry near Summerland was on the warpath.’

‘Ah, the one thou didst not run off the road,’ Vanya murmured smilingly.

‘That one yes. I will deal with it.’

‘What does he want?’ Marcus asked.

‘Howard thinks he may want to kill me,’ Vanimöré said. ‘His son was the apple of his eye apparently, which tells thee all thou wouldst need to know about both of them.’

‘What can I do?’

Vanimórë felt a jolt of recognition. Just so had the _Khadakhir_ been: so young, so eager to prove themselves to him.  
‘Nothing,’ he said, dampeningly, and bent to kiss his sister’s cheek. ‘Goodnight, my dear.‘ He nodded to Marcus, unsmiling, and went to the door where he halted, turned back. ‘Was this Kenny still in the pub?’

‘He had almost a pint left, yes.’

**OooOooO**

Kenny was not drunk, not by a long way, but the whiskey fumes swum, not unpleasantly, through his brain as he followed the well-trodden route back to the Clouds. It was a mild, still night with a full moon that lit the country road, and quiet, quiet, save for the rustle of something in the hedge, a fox or badger, or the distant sound of the wading birds in the marshes. His boots rapped loud against the tarmac.

He was not in the least superstitious, but the moon was veiled now, glowing hugely thought the upper haze, and he found himself remembering the tales of this land, of black dogs, and ghosts at the Clouds. With a mental shake, he reminded himself he had more important things to think about. He knew a threat when he heard it, and what the _fuck_ was he supposed to _do_? It sounded as if Clive Reynolds meant to use him to get some hard-men from London into the house itself. He bit his short nails. He knew exactly what would happen in that event: at the least he’d be dismissed without reference, and all he knew was horses, this job. He’d had worse. Some trainers and owners were shits. There were always people looking for such work, and if you didn’t like it, there’s the door.

When the long, black shadow loomed before him, he thought it was a trick of the moonlight; but then he realised, shockingly that it was a person, dead silent in the quiet night. He smelled a fragrance like incense, felt the presence and yelped involuntarily as a voice said, ‘Good evening, Kenny.’ And the man turned to walk alongside him.

His heart thundering, Kenny said, ‘Jesus, you scared me, sir.’ For he had heard that voice, that accent, across the garden earlier this evening.

‘Sorry about that.’ Lucien Steele did not sound at all apologetic. ‘I believe you have been speaking to someone who would like to know about me.’

Damn. Damn and shit. For a split second he thought about denying it. He didn’t.  
‘Well, yeah, there’s a guy in the Star seems interested,’ he said lamely. ‘I thought, you know, with the people at the house, maybe he wanted to visit but.’ Kenny heard himself babbling and cringed, but Lucien Steele frightened him a good deal more than Clive Reynolds. Kenny was small and wiry; this man seemed to tower over him, and he could have sworn that the moonlight glowed purple in his eyes.  
‘I didn’t see no harm in it, sir, but tonight he told me his boss—‘

‘—Thinks I killed his son.’

Kenny gulped. ‘Well, yeah, mad, eh? But he asked about the house, the security, and he wants to bring some people up from London, wanted me to show them...’ He trailed off, and at the ensuing silence: ‘What you going to do, sir? Call the police?’

There was a low laugh. ‘Oh no, Kenny. I think I will let them come.’ His hand settled on Kenny’s shoulder, whose legs almost buckled. ‘And of course you were going to inform Marcus St. Cloud, were you not?’

There was a moment of terrifying disorientation, as if he were sent dropping into deep space. The hand felt like hot iron. He thought that with the barest assertion of pressure it might crumble his shoulder.  
‘I...yes,’ he gasped. ‘Yes, of course!’

The hand was removed. ‘Of course. But not tonight, I think. Go on home, now and sleep. You may be called up to the house tomorrow to speak to Marcus.’

Kenny shambled off up the road, shaking. He paused to throw up on the verge, then his steps staggered on.

‘What _are_ you doing to my staff?’ Marcus asked amusedly from the shadows. Vanimórë turned his head slowly. He had known the boy was there; he carried his own scent, a kind of dark, rich amber.

‘Didst thou wish to deal with him thyself?’

‘I wanted to see how _you_ did.’

‘I did nothing.’

Marcus joined him. ‘Of course not,’ he agreed, still with that underscore of laughter. ‘Nothing, and Kenny spilled his guts and _then_ spilled his guts.’

‘He was already afraid.’

They walked. Marcus was almost as quiet as he.

‘How much canst thou remember?’ Vanimöré asked after a moment.

‘Now? Everything.’ There was another pause. ‘I hate him and despise him but—‘

Vanimórë whirled round on him. ‘He _is_ thee. Do not try to distance thyself from him! Accept him!’

‘He is what I _could_ be. And I am what he _could have been_! What would _you_ have been if you had been raised among the Elves?’

Vanimórë halted, gazed up at the moon. It was what he had always desired. He remembered, as if the memory were so close he could reach out and touch it, his words to his sister, in the neglected dank of Tol-in-Gaurhoth: _'Perhaps we are prisoners. Perhaps they will come and rescue us. We may belong to some-one...and...and one day we will leave this place and see...outside. Mayhap we have a...father and mother....'_

He had wanted to give Vanya some hope, had never believed his own words that fell so desperate, so hollow in the ruined beauty of Finrod’s river fortress. And still hoped, as one with a terminal illness hopes for a miracle, a spontaneous remission of the disease, knowing that it will never come.

 _What would I have been like?_ Pointless to think about it. He was about to dismiss the thought, when he heard, close as a lover’s whisper, his father’s voice from a long-lost time: _You thrived on cruelty, Vanimöré. It was a goad to you, something to fight. Without it, what would you have been but a spoilt child?_ And Sauron’s hand dragging him from the dream-made-real of his dissolution... _You had better snap yourself out of this, you bastard. Very well, I will do it... What happened to your courage, my son, or are you truly a weak-willed, puling coward, hiding in the dark? A pity, I thought better of you. And so did they.’_

He jerked his head as if flicking something away: the memory, the voice — but not the truth inherent in the words. Because it _was_ the truth: he needed a foe to pit his will against, and he had needed Sauron’s pragmatic cruelty then, at then end. Nothing else would have reached him.

In truth, he could not imagine a life of ease, a life such as ‘Lucien Steele’ enjoyed, as this boy had enjoyed: pampered, loved, privileged. And yet...Marcus had sought out a more dangerous life. _As I would have, if born an Elf._

The reached the tall pillars that announced the Clouds. The drive was shadowed by dark pines that threw resin-scented blackness across the road. A roosting bird stirred; an owl, far away and ghostly, called like a lost memory. A few dead pine-needles fell with a soft, pattering _tick_.

Marcus turned, walked backwards before Vanimöré. His voice was soft, with a flaying-edge of anger: ‘You dislike me. I know why, but you have always and only ever been _yourself_. I am you, born into a different world and living a different life, raised by your sister, taught and mentored by her. There is nothing I can do about that, Vanimöré. She said to watch you, your sister, to watch and learn. Very well. I have. I will. Perhaps you didn’t make the mistakes I — he — did. You were stronger, more intransigent, more Fëanorion —‘

‘Spare me the history of my life.’

‘But that is what I am dreaming now: the history of your life. I am becoming your memories. And I don’t know _why._ ‘

Vanimöré stopped dead, frowning. Why, he thought. And immediately on its heels: _Why not? He is an aspect of me, yes, growing back toward the tap root._

‘Did my brother dream? Did he? And if not, why not? And yet, you liked him, not knowing whom he was.’

‘He did not look enough like me to suspect,’ Vanimöré replied, still thinking. _But thou dost._ They had come out from under the pines; a few lights showed at the staff houses. Beside them, in a fenced paddock, horses stood, black shapes, still and somnolent.

‘I want immortality, I admit it, to become what I _should be_ , but if you won’t bestow it, then you won’t. I will find another way. Were we not _born_ gods, on the old, oldest world? I’ll find a way.’ Marcus flung round and strode away. Vanimöré waited for a moment, then walked on. The Clouds bulked, ominous; not far away the windows of Claire’s cottage were dark save one bedroom window that gleamed gently. He heard, in the stillness, the soft thump of hooves on turf and followed it.

Marcus was standing at the fence near the cottage; Rob Roi’s head was bent into his chest; one of the boy’s hands smoothed the great, arched neck. He rested his cheek against the long bone of the stallion’s face. So had Vanimöré done to Seran, a moment of mutual love and respect.

_So long ago, a world where I was myself, where I could be myself. Before ascension..._

Was that what Marcus sought for? Not perhaps the life he had then, but the sense of being himself?

He turned, walked back to the house.

OooOooO


	11. ~ Edgewalkers ~

  
  
  
  


**~ Edgewalkers ~**

~ He came out of the dream with a gasp and start, already half out of bed as consciousness snapped back. It was not, this time, a nightmare but a cherished memory of riding Seran across the rolling steppes of Rhûn, an autumn wind shaking the yellowing birch leaves. The scent, the chill, the vast grey skies, Seran’s hot-hay scent in his nostrils, the surge of powerful muscles: all were still with him as he rose. He found himself breathing deeply to hold on to the dream.

He knew that Vanimöré, the one he mentally referred to as _the real Vanimöré._ (with a backward look of amusement at himself for thinking so) had ruled a city in the Harad and it was there, he had bred Seran. But in this world, Seran was born in the fields around the bitter inland sea of Nûrnen, and had carried Vanimórë into battle and skirmish for twenty two years before his great heart stopped.

Vanya had agreed with her brother that no, this was not Seran reborn, but in both worlds he had sired many offspring, and Marcus thought the bloodline might have survived time and cataclysm to bring them together.

He hated, despised, was sickened by, most of the dreams of that old life and yet the strength, energy, power and competence of it, of Vanimöré was _him_ , and he had lost that, it was missing. He felt the loss like a missing rib. Some of it had travelled over into this life, but not what he considered was the truth of him: the Elven blood, Sauron’s blood — immortality.

 _Immortality_. He gripped the window frame, breathed in the broth of scents: salt from the sea, leaves, rich earth, the brackish fume of the wetlands. The moon was dipping west, hazy and huge. He went back to the bed, lay with his hands behind his head, dropped back into that half-state between sleeping and waking.

He dreamed himself awake; rose again, opened the bedroom door, went soft-footed down the stairs as the house seemed to move, creak, aware of him, as if its very walls opened their eyes and followed his movements — out of the door.

Behind the Clouds, the old track of Peddars Way ran to the north and south. Smoky drifts of mist wreathed across it. He turned north, and walked, felt the change...The air, now, held the sharp cold of early spring, when the retreating winter still has one hand on the land’s shoulder. The great, dark sense of the sea seemed closer; gone were the tame, tilled fields, cultivated to the checkerboard inch, the wide fecund farmlands. In his dream, this was a more ancient world, a wild, rich, gloomy place.

Old trees, ivy-tangled, crouched over the track; the mist seethed here and Marcus felt his breath come short, the prickle of awareness of an evil once known. There was the muted jangle of harness; he was shod and clothed in black leather, swords at his back. Coming to a halt, he fell into the battle-ready fighting stance that came, in the dream, as naturally as the breath entering and leaving his lungs, pluming on the cold air.

It seemed, at first, far away, as if approaching down a long tunnel, but grew in size and horror, bursting through the fog like an old nightmare, huge as a horse, eyes red as the deeps of Angband, fangs that barred the pits of hell.

And he knew it.

He cried out in a long-dead language, in his father’s tongue older than the most ancient Elvish, birthed in the darkness of the Underworld, Utumno. In the mouths of orcs it was an ugly, degraded thing; when Melkor and Mairon spoke, it was as blackly elegant as a sorcerer’s calligraphy, and cruel as a curse.

‘ _I see thee, Red Maw, Jaws of Thirst. I am Vanimöré. I saw thee fed living flesh before the throne of Melkor. I know thee and do not fear thee._ ’

The great paws ploughed the damp earth into ruts as it slowed, paused. Its huge muzzle lifted, nostrils snuffing. A growl coiled up from its throat, a long low rumble of threat. And then it leapt. Marcus felt the rush of it, the rage and malice like a smothering cloud, smelt the carrion stench.

He whirled aside, spinning out of its path, the blades slicing along its length.

There was a yelping bellow. The mist seemed to fold in on itself then explode in a million sparks. There was the smell of burning hair, old blood.

He heard, beside him, a ripple of appreciative laughter. A voice said, in the same language: ‘You cannot send him away for ever, my son. He is part of this land now, sewn into its fabric. But that was...quite impressive.’

His heart jolted, pounded like a drumbeat in his ears.

Mairon was robed as Marcus remembered him from Angband and Barad-dûr, in black and flame-coloured silk over breeches and boots; ice-blond hair poured down his back; his mouth was tipped in amusement.  
‘Surprised?’ he asked. ‘Yes, I know you are well-guarded, but this is an ancient place, Marcus Tierra, Vanimórë, a thin place. I can access them.’ His eyes, with the fire always in their depths, sparkled over Marcus. ‘I have been curious about you from the beginning. Yes, I always knew there was a twin. But are you so very different to Leon, I wonder?’

Marcus wanted to deny the pang that assaulted him, a grief for something missing that had now gone beyond recall. But he said, ‘I am different in that I will not kneel at your feet, Sauron.’

‘You bowed at my feet all your life, my son. You were loyal until the utter end.’ But there was a vein of distaste through the words and, as if a door had opened and shut upon him, Marcus felt as if he were in his old life, knowing deep within (and refusing to admit) that Sauron used him and his skills, but wholly despised him for his obedience and compliance. It brought the blood hot into his face with a lash of anger. He stepped back.  
‘Not this time,’ he returned. ‘Not in this form. This is how I might have been. It is how I am.’  
  
‘You say that now, but when the years lengthen, as you feel your bones aching, see your hair thinning, your eyes clouding...and know that death approaches...I think you will kneel to anyone who promises you the desire of your heart.’ A perfect brow arched. ‘You hope _he_ will help you. He will not. He is made of steel and blood and ice, that one.’ There was no despite in his tone now, only appreciation. ‘But what are _you_ made of, blood of mine, fosterling of the Mother...I do wonder.’

_I wonder, too._

‘Will you be as much as a disappointment as your brother?’ Sauron closed the gap between them. Marcus, holding his ground, remembered the scent: incense and metal and fire.

‘I am not he. I was raised with care, with affection.’ He did not say ‘love’, that was too large a word, one he was unsure he knew the meaning of. Vanya’s love was disseminated and vast. She had not been his mother; if anything, he viewed her in the nature of an aunt who had looked after his every interest.

‘Blood always tells,’ Sauron said. ‘By some malice of the gods, or Eru, you were born as a Mortal, but everything in you rebels. As it should. Well, when you are ready, you will come to me. And then...we will see.’

Marcus shot: ‘You did not save Leon.’

‘He was not worth saving.’ The ice, the indifference, were a chilling echo of Vanimöré — or Vanimórë was an echo of Sauron.

The mist flowed between them. When it cleared, Sauron was gone. The air warmed again to the benison of late spring. In the marsh, frogs croaked. The moon drew her hazy cloud-shawl westward.

_I am not dreaming. This was real._

There was blood and hair on the edges of his swords. He removed an oiled cloth from his harness and slowly, meticulously, cleaned them.

He refused to acknowledge that he was shaking.

OooOooO

The house did not disturb him (or any of them), though it reminded him of the great houses of Lindon after the death of Gil-galad, when so many had abandoned the once mighty kingdom for the Havens, left their homes open to the air, to the rain, to the slow creep of uncaring time.  
But the echoes here were not of lost beauty, glory, the remembered song of harp notes; they were ragged splinters, cries in the night, shadows where none should fall, a touch on one’s shoulder in the dark — and something behind all those. He thought: ‘This house has always been haunted.’ The land itself was, but there was something else...

Tindómion looked at his father’s sleeping face. They shared a twin-bed room and had spent most of the previous night conversing. This evening, Maglor had drawn out the mirror, said, ‘Wouldst thou look?’

‘No,’ he replied. ‘Hast thou?’

‘It has not shown me the past, and for that I am grateful. It showed me my son, and I am even more grateful for that.’

Tindómion touched the shining surface. ‘I do not want to see the past.’ he swallowed past the hot ball of agony in his throat. ‘I dream it. Only the future.’ After a moment: ‘The Silmaril, father?’

‘Yes,’ Maglor said. ‘I am not sure if I ever truly wanted to find it.’ Breath exploded out of him like pain. ‘I think I hated it. Hated what it had done, the power of it, of my father’s soul. I hated him and my brothers for leaving me alone, I hated myself for refusing to give up.’

‘I know, I know.’ He bent his brow against his father’s. ‘I hated thee for a long time, or tried to.’

Now Maglor slept. Tindómion went to the window, looking out over the marshes to the sea that had once been low-lying land. He himself had never considered trying to recover the lost Silmarils; he wanted to find _Maglor._ Now the knowledge of him, the warmth of discovering him, so much _more_ than he had seen in dream or imagined, refined by burning grief and defiance to something purer than gold, stronger than adamant.

Impatience was an emotion he had not experienced for so long; it had become a fixed resolve, the patience of a ox yolked to the plough. Now it flickered through long unused pathways, reminding him of his youth, of Lindon. He wanted to be _doing_ , find the last Silmaril, break into Valinor and bring back the dead.

Sometimes it felt as if a million years had passed since Gil-galad’s death, and at other times as if he could look up and see him as if it were the first time, in the great hall in his Lindon palace...but that image would crack like glass and show him Gil’s face dead, white, black locks of hair around him like a shroud.

Abruptly, he left the room, followed the stairs and passages down to the utility room where he opened by a side door, stepped into the night.

 _Father finds the Silmaril. We break a way into Valinor and release the dead. And then what_? Beyond the future there were the dreams of the past, a world where they had walked as gods...

The night was murmurous, placid. Not far away, a soft light showed at Claire’s cottage. He hesitated... _A man, black hair sliced with blue, leaping in the movements of ballet, powerful and gorgeous, Claire standing with him on a windy cliff top...notes of music..._ He caught his breath to snatch the vision back, but it was gone. The light went out.

He turned toward the marsh, the sea, then stopped, swung back, uncertain. An owl called from far away, hunting.

Slowly, an old, prickling presence, a sense of violence and ancient evil bloomed like a poisonous night flower. It seemed to roll toward him like an onrushing train and he braced to meet it. Then it faded like smoke, and in its place was something else: a smell like fire, perfume, the scorch of a forge, a hot-spot in the cold.

Along the old track wisps of mist lay like water and, despite the full moon, it seemed darker there. Glamoured, Tindómion wore no sword, unglamoured, his true self did. The blade fashioned for him by Celebrimbor; the incised script still as sharp as the day he cut it: _I am Gurthdur, death of the dark._ The metal chimed as he drew it from its sheath, light flared a path down each bitter, bitting edge. He strode forward, into a chill that was both memory and reality, there and not-there and that scent, that gathered shadow grew more real.

And then, as sudden as the flicking off of a light switch, it was gone. He halted, narrowed his eyes, searching, but there was only the marsh stretching to the sea, the gentler land to the west, no sense of anything waiting or approaching, or watching him in the night.

And then, the mist along the track swirled and broke as a figure breasted it, walking with a long warrior’s stride. Tindómion thought it was Vanimöré, then realised it was Marcus St. Cloud, although, at this moment, he looked very similar to Vanimöré, wore the same clothes, bore the same weapons. Gurthdur had not lit for him, but for that old rushing malice, now gone, and the glowing ember than represented something far more dangerous — and familiar. The first had been banished. By Marcus? Tindómion lowered his sword, waited.

His feelings toward Marcus were ambivalent but, like Maglor, he had little difficulty in accepting this man was not the warrior who had refused to surrender in Barad-dûr.

Those had been black days, after Gil-galad’s death, when the Elves entered the Tower and unearthed the full, cold horror of Sauron’s seat of power. Tindómion was still limping from a wound in that last battle on the slopes of Orodruin, but no wound could have prevented him from going into Barad-Dûr, just as no wound could have been more agonising than the High King’s death.  
Yes, he hated this black-armoured warrior who had fought in Mordor, killing as gracefully, as lethally as any Elf, who had faced Glorfindel in Sauron’s throne hall and declared himself: ‘I am Vanimórë, son of Sauron.’ And then saluted he and Glorfindel both.

There had been no question of clemency, of surrender; Sauron’s son would not have accepted it. He had chosen his last stand here, at the foot of his father’s throne.

Tindómion remembered, too, Glorfindel saying at the end, after the long, brutal, bloody duel was ended.  
_’In another world, he would have been one of us. A pity._ ’ There was respect in his voice; blood stippled across his face, and across the dead man’s. Even in death, he was beautiful. Too fine to be Sauron’s get.

Glorfindel’s words came back to him now, and he thought: _In this world he wants to be one of us, but is born Mortal._ And he did not look it; even at first sight, he had not appeared Mortal.

Marcus saw him and paused. His eyes were wide, indigo in the strange light.

‘It is Carcharoth,’ he said. ‘The energy anyhow, the ghost, the memory of him. This Black Shuck.’

‘Ah,’ Tindómion said. ‘Thou didst know?’

‘Not know, sensed perhaps. I — _he_ — knew Carcharoth, saw him. Not often. I was young. Tonight, I felt something, yes.’ There was a long pause. ‘It vanished when I challenged it, but—‘ There was a suggestion of set teeth. ‘I saw Sauron. He said Peddar’s Way is a thin place and he can use it, and all such places.’

Yes, Sauron, Tindómion recalled that scent of his from his abortive attempt to infiltrate Lindon and, later, from Ost-in-Edhil. And last — last — from Mordor, and Gil-galad’s death.  
‘What did he say to thee?’ His question came like a lash, but Marcus did not flinch, he snapped: ‘He wanted to know if I was different to my...to Leon. I said I would not kneel to him, and he prophesied that I would, to gain immortality, when I began to grow old.’

And so he might, so might anyone, but this young man, who so clearly was born into the wrong race...perhaps.

Marcus’s mouth crooked into a cynical smile. ‘Yes, you think that too.’ He almost pushed past. ‘It will not happen. I’ll find a way myself.’

Tindómion watched him for a moment, then caught up. He said, ‘Thou didst have my father, in Barad-dûr.’

It stopped Marcus, brought him around like a cornered cat. ‘Yes,’ he hissed. ‘I did. I wanted...My god, I would have done anything to keep him with me. Even after, Sauron could have asked me to do _anything_ and I would have done it, just to keep Maglor Fëanorion in the same space, the same place.’ He laughed wildly. ‘He thought — I thought — I could protect him from Sauron. But what he wanted was to try and subvert your father, make him his right-hand. Later, he desired Celebrimbor to be the same.’

Tindómion said flatly: ‘My father would never have bowed to Sauron. Neither did Celebrimbor.’

‘I know that.’ More softly: ‘In memory, I was glad, when Maglor escaped.’ He lifted his head to the veiled moon and exhaled. ‘I hate almost everything that I did in that life. I was a skilled warrior, good at war. I remember that with something like pleasure. And your father. He was — is — _magnificent_. All that fire, all that beauty...’ His head came down, his eyes fixed upon Tindómion. ‘And you are just like him, but for that hair,’ with a blinding smile that the next words snatched away. ‘But the rest... Maybe Leon recalled it with pride, but I am not he. I was not raised as he was. I am what he might have been, and he is what I might have been. Perhaps it was easier for him, not bearing a load of regret, of shame.’ He turned away. ‘I need to speak to them, Vanya, Vanimöré. I don’t think either of them ever sleep.’ Over his shoulder: ‘Do you dream, Tindómion Maglorion Fëanorion? I do. I dream Vanimórë’s life.’

It stopped Tindómion dead. _So did I dream my father’s life._

What did it mean?

OooOooO

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tindómion’s brief vision is a glimpse of Narya_Flame’s ‘Bluebirds’ where Gil-galad, born as human, is a ballet dancer. Bluebirds is magical :) 
> 
> https://archiveofourown.org/works/20938430/chapters/49779395


	12. ~ A Touch of the ‘Other’ ~

  
  


**~ A Touch of The Other ~**

  
  
  
  
  
  
~ Vanimórë said, ‘Sauron is not nearby, not now. Of course he can use the thin places, lesser portals, but I doubt he remains in the location. He was testing the waters.’  
  
They had gathered, all of them, in the living room. Edenel and Coldagnir brought in a tray of tea.  
  
‘Carcharoth,’ Maglor said looking at his son. ‘Yes, I did wonder; it had the feeling of something out of Angband.’  
  
Vanya seemed unperturbed by either visitation. In a long houserobe of ivory, her glamour discarded she looked like a priestess-queen of some ancient past.  
‘I would not have wanted thee to encounter him before this,’ she said to Marcus. ‘But thou art grown now, and it was inevitable the two of thee would meet, one day.’  
  
All eyes were on him. He raised his chin. ‘I _know_ you can see what happened,’ he told them. ‘So look.’  
  
‘We have,’ Vanimöré assured him dryly. ‘And I am rather impressed by the way thou didst challenge Carcharoth. It seems Sauron was, too. The question is, will he prove to be correct in his assessment of thee?’  
  
The faint glow of pleasure, as if he had received a light pat on the back, curled up and died. Marcus stepped toward him. ‘You would like that, I know.’  
  
‘I would certainly have to take steps, didst thou go to him, but I think it unlikely that he would grant thee thy wish.’  
  
‘He hates sycophants and toad-eaters. I know. I always knew. I felt his disgust as strong as a scent. And what do you mean, _steps_?’  
  
‘Whatever Sauron intends on this world, _I_ cannot permit him thine aid,’ Vanimöré snapped. ‘Thou wert quite useful to him. So was I.’  
  
‘Intends? Well, what does he intend? To become what he was? There’s not enough belief,’ Marcus scoffed. ‘Not in this world, this age. There will never be a Dark Lord on his Dark Throne. Not here.’  
  
‘Anything is possible. There only have to be enough who believe, those in high places.’ Vanimöré smiled coldly. ‘The power behind the throne then becomes the power upon it — when it is too late.’  
  
Vanya stirred in her seat. ‘Well, my dears, tomorrow afternoon, Marcus and I go to London for two or three days. I think thou canst keep an eye on the place while we are away.’  
  
Startled by this change in the subject, Marcus swung to her. ‘Are you sure it’s safe to let me out?’ he asked caustically.  
  
Her grey eyes met his. ‘I raised thee so thou couldst make a choice, my dear.’  
  
‘What choice?’ he demanded. ‘To live quietly, keeping my head down, and then die as all mortals do, or to fall into Sauron’s trap — which isn’t even a trap, as he would never keep his word? You said Sauron was testing me. And this is a test, too, isn’t it, my whole life in this world, leading to the time when I could choose between what seems to me, to be two non-choices?’  
  
‘Life always give thee choices,’ Vanya murmured. ‘Just be sure to take them with clear eyes.’  
  
Marcus turned away, a hand to his head. He took deep breaths, in through the nose, exhaled through his mouth, counting. His voice was tight, controlled as he said, ‘What about Kenny and the man who wants revenge on you?’ He swung to Vanimöré.  
  
‘Ah, him. Speak to Kenny, call him up to the house before leaving tomorrow.’  
  
‘I intend to. But you can’t really mean to allow these criminals to come here?’  
  
‘What harm can they possibly do?’ Vanimöré drawled.  
  
‘Nor to you or anyone in this room.’ Marcus threw out a hand. ‘But what about the staff, the horses?’  
  
He thought he must have imagined the little glint of surprise and appreciation in those violet eyes.  
‘Be assured nothing will happen to them. It is me they want, and I will make it easy for them to find me.’  
  
‘Well, I hope you’re going to let me in on the plan.’  
  
‘Of course.’  
  
‘And don’t condescend to me,’ Marcus snapped. ‘You don’t know how many people are coming, or what weapons they’ll use.’  
  
‘Howard’s people are already keeping an eye on Mr. Roberts,’ Vanimöré told him. ‘And of course, we will keep thee in the loop, as they say. But the plan...’ He looked around the room and Marcus noticed his eyes rested on Coldagnir and Edenel for an instant. ‘Very well. Mr Roberts wants me, so let him come here, into the Clouds.’ His eyes glowed at their centres, a collision of galaxies. ‘Hast thou noticed that this is not a very friendly house, Marcus? Didst thou hear Claire’s thought?’ Marcus nodded, ghost-flesh prickling over him. ‘ _Something in the walls..._ ’ Vanimórë’s smile was a baring of teeth, a sword’s blooded, pitiless edge. ‘Let them come.’  
  
The chill sank deeper into Marcus’ flesh, lodged in the bones. He looked wildly at Vanya, who said prosaically: ‘This house has never been ...easy. There is a legend of Glamis Castle in Scotland, seat of the Earls of Strathmore; it is said there is a terrible secret of their line, of the castle, that is revealed only when the title is inherited, and must never be told to another.’ Her eyes veiled. ‘There is such a legend — and a true one — of this house.’  
  
All the hair on his head seemed to lift. ‘What?’ he whispered.  
  
‘Thou art aware that it was always deemed to be a harbinger of ill-luck when the line produces twins,’ she stated. He nodded. ‘There have been more than a few St. Clouds who thought they could circumvent the supposed curse by doing away with one of the twins — just as thy parents did, although without resorting to violence. But some of their ancestors...if they could not bring themselves to do the deed, there were always servants loyal to them, or at least to money. The ghosts of dead children haunt these walls, Marcus and, too, those who murdered them. There was a house here before this that burned down in the 17th Century. The Clouds was built upon that site, and it was not a pleasant place either, that old manor. What happened there...and even here, lingers.’ She held up a hand as though cupping a weight. Marcus stared at her. ‘Sometimes the ghosts of the dead are just that, like the Houseless Elves of long ago. But these are bound here by guilt — and by the spirits of the children they slew.’  
  
‘My god.’ There was a long, pulsing silence. Upstairs, a floor creaked as under an invisible tread. ‘What a hell of a family to be born into.’  
  
‘They say that if you trace any family line back far enough you always find the three i’s,’ Vanimöré remarked nonchalantly, although his expression was hard as marble. ‘Illegitimacy, incest, and insanity. It is still better than being Sauron’s son.’  
  
Marcus cast up his eyes and turned away.  
  
‘Oh, the St. Clouds of the last hundred years have been fairly blameless,’ Vanya reassured him. ‘Certainly neither of thy parents would have countenanced such a thing as murder. But they _were_ superstitious. They loved this place, although thou canst hardly credit it, and were not touched by its atmosphere — no, truly. Monica’s family were from Scotland and there have been people in her line who one might call witches, with some facility for magic, but even so...they both loved the house and the land and their horses, and wanted it to pass into their son — or daughter’s — hands.’  
  
‘And you knew that, of course.’  
  
‘I knew, yes, and the truth of thy bloodline — and so I came here and took thee away.’  
  
I wish the damned place would burn to the ground,’ Marcus exclaimed passionately. ‘So.’ He looked back at Vanimöré. ‘What, you’re going to lead Roberts and his criminals into a haunted house, is that it?’  
  
‘Partly. And then, we will see what happens. I do not intend any of them to leave this place.’  
  
Marcus felt the ghost-flesh break on his arms again but with it a familiar feeling of challenge, the hot-wire thrill before battle, a memory from his former life.  
‘Can you assure me none of the staff will be hurt, none of the horses?’  
  
‘Nothing is assured, but there will be Department people here, and all of us.’  
  
‘And we’ll be notified when they are on their way, Roberts and his men?’  
  
Vanimöré nodded once. ‘Howard is going down to London in the morning to oversee the operation.’  
  
‘Of course not. Well, then.’ He paused, glanced at Vanya. ‘I’ll see Kenny in the morning, and then we’ll travel up to London. I want to be as quick as possible.’ Much though he hated this house, he did not wish to be away when the events unfolded.  
  
‘So.’ Vanya rose. ‘Let us rest then, for the remainder of the night.’  
  
‘There is just one thing I wonder,’ Marcus said slowly. ‘This Roberts. He grieves for his son, which is natural, but what makes him think he can do what he purposes? Does he think he can get away with it? It’s madness.’  
  
‘Yes,’ Vanimöré murmured. ‘It would be interesting to know that, would it not?’  
  
  
  
  
  


OooOooO

~ Perhaps it was Howard’s influence, or simply being the heir to a title in the genuine old-boys-club way of England, but the meetings in London went swiftly. On the second day, Vanya and Marcus came out of the venerable and respected solicitor’s to a warm and breezy afternoon.

Mr. Stowe-Burgess had been almost apologetic about the previous day’s DNA tests. He said he had frequently dealt with Leon St. Cloud and there could be no doubt of the familial resemblance. A charming, intelligent older man, deeply civilised, his condolences were genuine and his manner toward Marcus reassuring, almost grandfatherly.

‘Due to the ah..nature of your brother’s work, and his untimely demise, certain aspects of what we discuss now and in the future will come under the Official Secrets Act, Lord Vale.’ Mr. Stowe-Burgess raised his thin, aristocratic brows. ‘You understand, I’m sure.’

Marcus said he did, but was startled to hear himself addressed thus. His full title was (Or would be) Lord Marcus Vale of St. Cloud. Maybe most young men would be delighted to come into a title. Would Leon have taken pride in it or, believing himself the human-born son of a god, would a viscountcy have meant nothing at all?  
All Marcus could think of was the grim, haunted house, bloodstained by children’s deaths. But he could not abandon it; the title, house, estate, and all that went with it were his duty. It was a duty that felt like a millstone. There would be Rochford Manor too, unless he chose to sell, the place Leon had died; there was a property of Monica’s in Scotland, and a house in Chantilly, north of Paris. The St, Clouds had travelled often to France for the racing.

The solicitor’s appointment had been bisected by a pleasant lunch and now Vanya asked if Marcus wished to return to Norfolk, or spend another night in London. Marcus had only been to London twice before, not including going to or from Heathrow, and was inclined to stay but, although there had been no news of the vengeful Mr. Roberts and his men, he decided it was better to drive back to the Clouds today. Traffic-permitting, it was about three hours, and he was looking forward to the journey, having ordered the car he wanted a few weeks before. It waited now, in the parking area, a sleek black Bugatti Veryon. He did appreciate good cars, something he appeared to share with Vanimöré.

‘ _Don’t_ mention the Lamborghini,’ Marcus had said to Vanya when it was delivered to their hotel. She primmed her mouth over laughter. He was still resentful, but that emotion must be set against her long kindness to him from childhood; he did not want to cause a rift between them. Vanya, of all of them, Vanimöré included, was the most truly unknowable expect, perhaps, for the mysterious Eru. She had her reasons for what she did.  
‘Never!’ Then she had laughed. ‘I know it was not your fault, my dear. Just don’t forget to drive on the _left_.’

And so he had driven on the left carefully, but now they walked — for no real reason, only to stretch their legs, perhaps find a coffee, and a time for Marcus to think. They came out into Fleet Street, a tall, towered building on their right with a deep-arched church door below, dark iron railings. It was a strange sight to see in this busy place. Marcus was certainly not a Christian; if anything he supposed he was a polytheist, but he did not discount any god or goddess. Years ago he had asked Vanya if Jesus, or any of the gods truly existed.  
‘It would not matter if they did not,’ she had replied. ‘If enough people believe in something, it becomes real. And yes, there are old gods who have existed long before this world was even inhabitable, gods who have borne other names than they do now — and gods who have faded back into the land, the trees and mountains, the deserts and rivers but whose shadows still exist.’

Marcus remembered her words now as he paused in front of the doorway.  
Any place of worship — at least any place dedicated to prayer and peace — held an atmosphere that, at this moment, he needed.

The church was St. Dunstan-in-the-West, and was open for another half-an-hour according to the notices. He and Vanya stepped inside to quiet, to tall, soaring arches and light and, on the left, a huge and magnificent altar screen which looked Eastern Orthodox rather than Anglican or Catholic. It was, apparently, having been bought here from Bucharest.

There were long pews, a few people sitting in prayer or silent contemplation. The noise from Fleet Street dimmed and was muted, shaped to the silence within. He sat down, trying not to think of anything, to place himself outside his thoughts, allowing them to drift away like clouds. He had learned meditation and mindfulness young, and also in his first life. He, too, had been locked away in dank cells, left alone day after day, had been punished and tried to send his mind away to escape the pain.

Today, he could not achieve that state.  
Memories broke like mirror-shards into his mind, bright, sharp, cutting: Sauron and his shining, toxic curiosity, Vanimöré’s unsmiling, seemingly insurmountable, dislike, Maglor and Tindómion, silver eyes watching him, withholding judgement — for the time being — Edenel, Coldagnir, the inimical presence of the Clouds, mist laying on Peddar’s Way like drifting ghosts, Seran’s beautiful head resting on his chest, Claire smiling in evening sunlight...walking under a full moon in another world, galloping Seran along the lonely sands. And then, older images, his old life that blurred into Vanimöré’s and he wished beyond all desire that he had trodden that path, not the easier one of his own life in Middle-earth.

He opened his eyes, blinked, surrounded by the contemplative peace of the church, a lingering incense, the scent of votive candles burning, and something else that felt familiar, fading into the incense. _Patchouli, amber..._ It made him think of Toulouse, a long summer evening melting into night...He rose; it was time to leave, to return to the Clouds, and as he turned, his eyes swept across those of a young man, and their gazes locked.

‘Luc?’ He almost said it aloud, before he muffled the name. That was the scent he remembered.

‘Marcus?’ Luc mouthed back and smiled.

He had not seen Luc since leaving university; their time their having only overlapped by about eighteen months, and he could not exactly state they had been friends. Luc moved in his own circle of younger students, while Marcus had very few friends. In truth, he had none. People tended to approach him and then back away. It was his own fault, he knew, the sensation of _not belonging_ , not even wanting to belong. He drove people away. Oh, he could put on an act but, observing other wealthy students and their circle of sycophants had disgusted him. He did not want friends because of his money and, in the end, turned a cold shoulder to everyone.

Or not quite everyone; there were a few who slipped under the barriers. Luc might have been one, had there been more time. Marcus had initially met him outside of university, had been instantly impressed by him, and curious _about_ him or rather, his heritage. There was something _Other_ about Luc; a beauty, a power, a sense of ancientness that brought the blood racing close to Marcus’ skin, a feeling almost of affinity. When, one day, Vanya visited, he asked her and she said, ‘There are some, a very few, my dear, who carry the blood of the “Other”. Not always Elven. Sometimes, yes, not all the time. There are other bloodlines in the world now that come from older times. But one does not go around asking, or _telling_ people they might have such a heritage, Marcus. Not in this world.’

He heeded the warning, but it did not stanch his curiosity and he was more friendly and approachable toward Luc than many others when they met. One summer night, they sat up late over some very good wine, and Marcus learned that Luc was gay (he had already known that, it was one of the gifts of his own ‘old blood’) and locked in contention with his Catholic family. Marcus himself refused to wear any label, being attracted to men and women both, but then he had a foster-mother who was completely supportive, and had never had to deal with disapproval or sermons about ‘sin’.

More than once, after leaving university, he had emailed Luc, extending an invitation to visit Perpignan and stay a while, but Luc had never taken him up on the offer, and Marcus had not pushed the matter.

But here he was, unchanged; the same thick black braided hair, the beautiful tan face, with those brilliant black-coffee eyes, tall and slim, broad shouldered. While Marcus had, from the first, seen the fingerprint of the “Other” in Luc Donadieu, now, it was even more pronounced. Or perhaps, he was simply seeing more acutely.

Luc had turned to Vanya, smiling. He had met her at university, and envied Marcus his foster mother’s largeness of mind. Without consulting, they went to the exit, pausing to place money in the donation boxes, before coming out into the air.

‘Of all the places,’ Luc said, laughing. ‘I thought you were a complete pagan, Marcus.’ Then they embraced, kissed one another’s cheeks French-fashion.

‘Oh, I give all gods their due,’ Marcus smiled back. ‘Most of them anyhow. What are you doing in London? Work?’

‘I might ask you that. But no, not work. I just...’ He shrugged. ‘I wanted a break. Just a couple of days. You?’

‘It’s a little complicated.’ They swerved around pedestrians. ‘Are you busy?’

‘Not really, I was just looking around.’

‘There’s a cafe just near,’ Vanya offered. ‘Marcus, I will go back to the cars and meet you there.’ She took Luc’s hand. ‘Lovely to see you again, my dear, and I hope we will see more of you.’

OooOooO

~ ‘You are kidding me, yes?’ Luc raised his brows over the coffee. ‘You’ve come into a _title_? Yes, I know you’re adopted, but still...’

‘Yes, it seems odd to me as well.’ Marcus said wryly. ‘It’s even more complicated because my twin brother worked for a government dept, MI6, and he was killed not long ago.’

The faint smiled drained from Luc’s face. ‘Oh, god, I’m sorry.’

‘I never knew him,’ Marcus shrugged. Although there had always been something missing, and missing forever now... ‘Or my real parents. Anyhow, I’m staying at their place, the Clouds, in Norfolk, while my DNA is tested, and the solicitors do their work.’ He put down his cup. ‘How are things with you?’

Luc looked down at the table-top, essayed a one-shouldered shrug. ‘Nothing much changes. Same-old.’

‘I’m sorry.’ Marcus felt angry and inadequate. ‘Is that why you came to London?’

‘Yes.’ Luc sat back. ‘I had a huge argument...Just some space, you know?’

‘And the church?’

‘I might ask you that. I just wanted a moment to think.’

‘So did I,’ Marcus murmured, then: ‘Do you need to be back in France? I mean quickly?’

‘Not really.’ His mouth curled into a half smile. ‘I’m in the middle of moving, to stay with my aunt and uncle. I’m not sure if I ever mentioned it to you, but I’m considering going into teaching. This trip...it’s just time to be away, to lose myself somewhere else.’

‘Would you like to come up to Norfolk for a few days?’ Marcus asked impulsively and then kicked himself mentally for completely forgetting the imminent ‘Roberts Operation’. But then Luc need not stay at the house; in fact it was not a place he would ever invite a friend, if he had any. ‘The Clouds is...’ He flicked through his phone and pushed it towards Luc. ‘I wouldn’t ask anyone I liked to stay there, and the government isn’t allowing anyone to come to the house at the moment, anyhow, but the village has two good pubs with bed and breakfast, and other meals. The food’s not bad.’

Luc’s brows rose at the picture of the Clouds. ‘Er,’ he said clearly striving to say something polite and failing miserably. His face shook a little, he closed his eyes, his voice shivered with laughter badly held in check. ‘Very interesting.’

Marcus snorted and then their laughter broke free.

‘Now I don’t know whether to congratulate your or commiserate with you.’ Luc said, collecting himself.

‘It’s debatable. Look, I know you never took me up on visiting, but —‘

‘I know, and I’m sorry.’ The last trembles of laughter vanished from the dark eyes. ‘Look, my family...they just thought you and your foster-mother were too...liberal. You won’t believe it but they used to say she was some kind of witch.’

‘Ha ha,’ Marcus said hollowly.

‘Ridiculous, I know. And you were too rich, too mysterious.’ He took a sip of coffee. ‘You had quite a reputation, you know.’

‘I can’t think why,’ Marcus said dryly. ‘I never held wild parties, never did anything outrageous.’

‘No, you were a model of respectability,’ Luc nodded. ‘Almost too much so. Intense, well-mannered. Too handsome to be real. You were so perfect, people thought there _had_ to be another side to you.’ He half-grinned. ‘Oh, you were part of some kind of secret society and involved in dark rites, that was one rumour. You were just mysterious. What did someone call you?’ He tilted his head in recollection. ‘Oh yes, the mysterious dark prince.’

Marcus was glad he was not drinking at that moment. ‘We just travelled a lot,’ he said with a faint smile. ‘Before I went to university. I suppose I had no real roots.’

‘That might be it, perhaps,’ Luc agreed. ‘Yes, I remember you telling me when we had that drink one night. I envied you quite a bit, travelling the world, that kind of freedom. You can imagine that after, everyone wanted to know what you were like.’

‘I hope you told them I had a good taste in wine.’

‘I told them nothing.’ Luc’s eyes creased at the corners. ‘And that of course, that made them even more curious.’ Marcus laughed. ‘But..well, there were rumours. Weren’t you aware? I know for a fact that three people who were prone to saying some truly vicious things about you, had some rather serious accidents. Coincidence of course, but, you know what gossip is.’ An elegant shrug. ‘Everyone wanted to either sleep with you, be you or kill you, possibly all three.’ Marcus snorted. ‘Anyhow, my family...they thought you’d lead me into the proverbial bad ways. I know I was of age, older, but...family ties...’

‘Yes,’ Marcus said. ‘Oh yes. I know.’ Himself and the St Clouds, himself and Vanimöré...and Sauron. Family ties. Blood ties. _Blood will tell._  
‘Well, will you come? Up to Norfolk? It’s on me. I haven’t actually come into the title yet, but yes, I have a lot of money, or rather Vanya has. And it would give you more time to think. It’s not London, it’s remote and a bit lonely, but...’

Luc lifted his head to look out of the window, the permanent noise and rush of London.  
‘Actually, that sounds pretty good.’ The smile returned, but a little wry. ‘And keep your money, Lord Vale. I think I can afford a few nights at a country pub.’

‘You can come up to the Clouds to have a look, and at the stables.’ By then, Marcus hoped the Roberts problem would have been dealt with. ‘I really wouldn’t put my worse enemy there. You’ll see what I mean. Unfortunately, it comes with everything else. I’d rather be in one of the pubs myself. Where are you staying? Shall we go and collect your luggage?’

OooOooO

‘Oh, you _poseur_ ,’ Luc laughed on seeing the Bugatti. ‘Wasn’t there a Lamborghini—‘

‘—And a driver on the wrong side of the road,’ Marcus said. ‘Not me, by the way.’ As Vanya stepped out of her own vehicle, smiling. ‘Ah, Luc,’ she called. ‘You’re coming with us, then?’

‘If it’s not an imposition, Ms. Tierra—‘

‘Of course not. Although, let me guess, Marcus has suggested you stay at the Lion, not in the house?’ Her eyes sparkled. ‘I’m sure you’re quite welcome to stay at the Clouds, isn’t he, Marcus? It’s not exactly comfortable, but we can do our best.’

‘Vanya has the only decent bedroom,’ Marcus said with an amused glance at her, but narrowed his eyes. ‘The St. Clouds were rather...eccentric, as you’ll see. Of course you’re welcome. Naturally. But I’d like to give you the choice.’ He opened the boot and Luc placed his luggage inside. ‘Do you still practice archery?’ he asked.

‘Yes.’ Luc looked surprised. ‘Do you?’

‘I had my gear bought to the Clouds. We’ll have to set up a place...’

Once they were out of the London traffic the route was straightforward: the M11 to the A11 up through Ely, to Kings Lynn and then the smaller roads winding east to the village. It was going on for seven in the evening when the cars rolled up the drive, drew to a halt outside the Clouds. Luc cast a glance at Marcus as he got out. The evening was rich with spring, sunlight lay ripe gold over the lawns. Crows called on the tall grey roof, and the windows watched like a dead king’s eyes.

‘Yes,’ Luc murmured. ‘I quite see what you mean.

OooOooO

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you, Narya_Flame for letting me place Luc in this fic.
> 
> Luc Donadieu is an OC from Narya’s ‘The Ways of Paradox’
> 
> https://archiveofourown.org/works/14638137?view_full_work=true


	13. ~ The Silence Before Thunder ~

  
  


**~ The Silence Before Thunder ~**

~ There were no other cars on the driveway and the house, as Marcus entered, was quiet, or as quiet as this uneasy place could be. _The silence before thunder._

‘They have some business to take care of,’ Vanya said, hanging up her jacket. Her vibrant matter-of-factness seemed to push back the gathered gloom which retreated, crouched in the corners, peering resentfully, or so Marcus thought. ‘Are you hungry, Luc?’ she asked. ‘Shall we go down to the village, or we can probably rustle something up.’

‘I really don’t mind,’ Luc smiled. ‘I don’t want to put you out.’

‘Nonsense. Marcus will have told you that we have other guests. We all lend a hand with the cooking, or eat out.’ She sailed off down down the hall, heels tapping saying, over her shoulder: ‘Come and get some cold drinks, Marcus, and take them outside. It’s a lovely evening.’

‘ _Is_ there a curse?’ Luc asked after his first drink. ‘I mean,’ he elaborated, ‘do _you_ believe there is one?’

 _I believe in them yes, but this world does not_. Marcus shrugged, would-be insouciant. ‘Maybe. No. Who knows?’ In that case he himself would die as his brother had. He sat up straight. ‘What I do believe is that curses are more effective if one believes in them, and I’m not particularly superstitious.’ Or at least there was no need to be when he knew what lay behind the origin of superstition. Better to stare the darkness in the eye than fear the shadows that massed around it.

Luc turned his head to look up at the brooding house. ‘Easy to believe in them, here.’

‘Yes. Yes, it is.’  
Marcus had explained the situation as they drove up from London, circumventing those things which would come under the Official Secrets Act. He had wondered, in the car, if he should have invited Luc into possible danger. It was not only Roberts and his imminent appearance; there were older, stranger and far more dangerous things in and around the Clouds. (The virulent, undying energy of Carcaroth, the restless ghosts of those dead and those who killed them, the porous nature of the very land itself) But Vanya had raised no objection; indeed she had seemed perfectly happy that Luc should come, and surely she would not have wanted to place him in a situation where he might come to harm?

‘And you don’t mind living here?’ Luc asked. ‘Ms. Tierra seems very relaxed about it.’

‘I think it would take more than ghosts and a curse to bother Vanya,’ Marcus laughed softly. ‘I’m not sure any of us like it, but I don’t lose any sleep.’ It was not the troubled ghosts of the Clouds that woke him, but the dreams.

‘You know, you’ve changed,’ Luc offered. ‘Quite a bit.’

‘Have I? Well, it’s been a few years.’

‘Not that you look much older, but...’ Luc made a circle with the beer-bottle. ‘Harder, maybe. And just...’ He tilted his head, then shook it. ‘Just different.’

Marcus smiled faintly. ‘Must be all the responsibility dropped on my head.’ He rose. ‘Bring your beer; I’ll show you why the Lion in the village is a much better option than the house.’

Luc was silent as he was lead up the stairs, along the dim hallways, shown unaired rooms with their dark old furniture, ancient bathrooms where water dripped hollowly, maddeningly, streaking the enamel.

‘This is my bedroom, or rather, the room I sleep in.’ Marcus opened a door to show the shabby rug on bare floorboards, the one pair of beds made up, a massive wardrobe which might have lead straight into Narnia (or Marcus thought, Middle-earth was more likely!) a chest of drawers, faded curtains. The only touch of modernity, that tethered his room to the world of today, was the laptop. There was nothing else. ‘We’re more or less camping out, here,’ he said. ‘As I told you, they were more than a little eccentric, the St. Clouds. No-one ever stayed here except, at times, my brother. This was his room.’ Again that pang, that ache of sorrow for something lost before it was even found. He wondered, as he had before, if Leon had been raised by Vanya, would he have been different, if he and Marcus had known one another would it have changed anything and if he, Marcus, had been the baby left to the St. Clouds, how would he have been?

Luc’s brow was creased a little as he took in the room, then back to Marcus.  
‘Is something wrong?’

‘Just thinking.’ He shut the door behind them.

More passages, then steep, echoing bare steps up to the top floor where the rooms were smaller, the passages seemed to criss-cross weirdly, and the light fell more dim, peering through narrow little windows. Marcus thought of the servants who would have occupied this floor, slept in these rooms. Perhaps, with other people around it would not have seemed so ominous, but no...this house, as Vanya said, had never been easy. Had the servants been kept awake by fading footsteps, by sounds they could not trace?

Opening the door to one room they saw a huge old water tank. A heavy slab of metal lay aslant over it. There was a glimmer of dark water, but no connecting pipes that Marcus could see.

In another room, one of those that looked over the marshes, he saw that the window was broken, a small hole showing as if a stone had been thrown, though it was unlikely. Dead leaves had drifted in, massed in one corner; something skittered in the shadows, a rat or mouse. And then it was quiet. Too quiet, an oppressive, waiting silence, like yeast working in bread. No, that made it sound almost homely, like a cook’s kitchen. There was nothing cosy about this feeling, or was it his imagination that something building like a storm front very far away?

Marcus glanced back at Luc, whose eyes were intent, and shut the door.  
‘So you see why I would not invite someone I like to stay here,’ Marcus said lightly, but Luc said dryly, rather drolly: ‘I’m glad you said that; I’m struggling to find positive things to comment on.’

The supernatural did not trouble Marcus, but he was definitely conscious of not wanting to look over his shoulder as they walked away toward the stairs. He was sure that someone — something — would be behind him. Luc’s straight shoulders seemed held stiffly, as if to ward of a blow.

They ascended the stairs and, with some relief, passed through the huge kitchen where Vanya was cheerfully chopping salad. Marcus opened the door into the utility room where he had stored his archery gear, zipped into sturdy bags. A gas fire burned not far away.  
‘Everywhere’s a little damp,’ he explained. ‘Not too bad this time of year, but that’s why the fire. Still, at least there’s plenty of room for practice. We could find somewhere tomorrow. I’d enjoy shooting with you again.’

‘You still fence?’ Luc asked, slanting a smiling glance.

‘Not for a while.’ Marcus did not say that he had come to find the sport tame. Of course, in his old life, sword-skills had not been a _sport._

‘Twenty minutes, my dears,’ Vanya called as they went back through the kitchen. She was dicing yellow tomatoes briskly, a glass of cold wine at hand.

‘Anything we can do?’ Luc asked, pausing.

‘No, no, off you go,’ She waved a hand.

‘So you see,’ as they resumed their seats. ‘I _have_ to be here, apparently, at least for now.’

‘What will you do, throw an army of redecorators in, and go away for a while?’ Luc accepted another chilled bottle.

‘I suppose I could do that, although I think it’ll take more than redecorating to make that place welcoming.’ He thought of what Vanya had told him of Summerland, Vanimöré’s hidden-away house in Devon, some kind of more modern Manderley; of his other homes across the world, all beautiful. Marcus was wealthy enough to buy somewhere he actually enjoyed living in, and no doubt he would, but he could not avoid the Clouds unless he sold everything, which seemed a species of cowardice, or running away from his responsibilities. ‘There are some other properties, one in Scotland I’d like to see, another in Chantilly. But this place...I would prefer it to go up in flames,’ he remarked honestly. ‘Like that house...what was it called, supposed to be the most haunted house in England... Borley Rectory. But there’s the estate, the stud — you must come and see Se— Rob Roi—‘ He stopped as Claire walked into view. She was half-smiling, summery-fresh, looked a little apologetic.  
‘Hi,’ she said a bit doubtfully. ‘Vanya texted and invited me for dinner but —‘

‘Of course, come and sit down.’ Marcus and Luc both rose. ‘Claire James, this is Luc Donadieu. We were at the same university. Luc, I told you of Claire; she looks after the top stallion, Rob Roi.’ They shook hands and Claire took a cold beer with a smile of thanks.  
‘Where is everyone else?’ she asked after her first drink.

She might well ask. ‘I believe they had some business to attend to,’ he replied, still more than a little irked that Vanimöré had not seen fit to keep him informed. ‘I’ve been showing Luc around, explaining why his staying in the Lion would be more comfortable.’

‘Oh, well. It certainly would be more comfortable,’ she agreed earnestly, eliciting a concerted laugh from both men as Vanya called out for Marcus to help bring the food.

They ate Tabouleh salad with wild rice, grilled chicken and hot rolls melting with butter. For desert, there was a whipped fruit mouse with swirls of fresh cream. Marcus poured a crisp, dry wine for them and it occurred to him, not for the first time, that Claire was an easy conversationalist as Vanya. Soon she and Luc were talking about cats, dogs and horses. He remembered Luc liked animals.

‘There’s a couple of stable cats,’ she was saying. ‘I feed one of them sometimes, although he only comes in if it’s really cold. But the St. Clouds have never had dogs or cats apparently.’

‘Well, they say animals are sensitive to atmosphere,’ Marcus said, rousing from thought as Claire’s gaze intercepted his for a moment, and shrugged. ‘It might be true.’ Then, in a bid for levity: ‘And speaking of one I wouldn’t _dare_ refer to as an animal: Can we walk down and see Rob Roi?’

‘Of course.’ She sounded surprised and her thoughts, floating close to the surface reminded him that Rob Roi, the Clouds, the stud and stables, the whole estate was his and she was his employee. The trouble was, it did not seem like it. He hid a wry smile. ‘Coming?’ he asked Vanya. ‘I’ll see to the dishes later.’

‘Oh, this is charming,’ Luc said of the house which, cradled by trees, its garden soft and beflowered, stood in stark contrast to the Clouds. It was as welcoming as an illustration in some old children’s book, or a Studio Ghibli landscape. ‘And this is Rob Roi?’ His brows rose as the stallion came to the fence. ‘Ah yes, I’ve heard of him, I think. Wow. Wasn’t he taken out of racing as he was too much trouble on the course?’

‘On it, off it,’ Claire grinned, laying a hand on the huge neck and with the other holding out a slice of apple. The ears pricked; the stallion took it gently from her palm and crunched, then turned his head to Luc, snorted through his nose. Luc smiled, held out his hand fearlessly, ran his fingers down from forehead to nose.  
‘Yes, you’re a magnificent fellow, and know it don’t you?’ He murmured.

Claire watched with a tiny half-puzzled frown.  
‘He doesn’t get on well with men, usually — well, with anyone much! but he’s different with everyone here.’ Her hand moved to indicate all the (temporarily absent) guests at the Clouds as well as Marcus and Luc.

‘Horses always pick up on fear,’ Luc said. ‘And it’s clear you’re not afraid of him.’

‘No,’ she agreed. ‘But I wouldn’t be careless, either. Respectful, yes.’

‘Oh yes, respectful. Anyone would be — or ought to be.’

She dimpled a little. ‘Well, as Robin trusts you, I wondered if —‘ she glanced from Luc to Marcus. ‘You were going to stay down in the village? There’s a spare room here. It has a few suitcases and boxes in, but it’s a nice room, and the bed can be made up in a few minutes. If you really don’t want to stay at the Clouds, that is. And this is closer than the village. Come and look.’

‘It would be putting you to too much trouble,’ Luc protested but after he had seen the room he said simply: ‘You’re very kind, Claire. If you’re absolutely sure it won’t put you out...?’

‘Not at all,’ she assured him and they strolled back to the house to collect his luggage, returning to the cottage and a last drink as the long evening light thickened toward twilight.

‘Come up for breakfast.’ Vanya included both of them in her invitation before she and Marcus left them, the lights glowing at the cottage windows. Vanya linked their arms.  
‘He _would_ have stayed,’ she murmured. ‘But it is better if he does not.’

‘Better?’ He turned to her sharply. ‘Then there _is_ danger?’

Her look was deep, level. ‘Thou knowest there is danger. He felt the malice of the house.’

‘Yes,’ Marcus agreed quietly. ‘I would have asked him if he wanted to stay in my room. There’s a spare bed, but he might have misconstrued it and I would not want him to think I was compromising him. I’m glad he’s staying with Claire.’  
  
‘Yes, they get on well.’ Vanya turned her head to look at him. ‘Sometimes thou art so much like it my brother. The only time he did not act with honour was when Maglor was in Barad-dûr, although he did act out of love. And I think...thou didst also.’  
  
‘Did I?’ he asked harshly. ‘I wouldn’t blame Maglor Fëanorion — or his son — for putting a knife through my heart. I’d deserve it.’  
  
‘Yes, thou didst expect him to, and did not avoid him.’  
  
‘I am not a coward,’ he retorted. ‘In this life or in that.’  
  
‘I know that. I know what thou didst, in Africa.’  
  
‘And would again.’ It had not even surprised him, that there was no guilt, no shock associated with the killing. The soldiers would have kidnapped the young girls, used them to rape and breed from, killed the children who were of no use. It had felt perfectly justified, perfectly natural to end their lives. There was only the coolness of mind after, of doing something that was necessary.  
  
She nodded. ‘Yes, and so would he. And so would Maglor and Tindómion, and the others. And they have.’ She was quiet for a moment. An owl called from across the dim blue-shadowed fields. ‘Thou art not the Vanimöré whom Maglor knew in this world. In all fairness, I do not think Leon was, either. The Maglor of my brother’s universe, and mine...’ There was another pause. The dusk seemed to roll over the land like a last sigh; the verges of the track gleamed white with clouds of St. Ann’s Lace and the air was very still. ‘I think,’ Vanya continued soft as the evening: ‘That there was a greater tie between them than Vanimöré felt for anyone. The bonds were hate and desire, and love, and respect and, above all, passion. Complex, difficult, but enduring and made into reforged steel by their shared blood.’  
  
‘But he let Maglor go. I — the man I was — sought to take him to Sauron. There is the difference.’  
  
‘Certainly. Or Thou didst intend to, at first.’  
  
She was giving him an out, if he chose to take it. He shook his head. ‘No. I would have. I was too much Sauron’s slave, then, to defy his orders.’ What’s else had there been for him? But what else had there been for Vanimöré and _he_ had never succumbed.  
  
_What was so lacking in me that I had to cleave to him_?  
  
Vanya gave a brief nod, as if acknowledging his honestly. ‘But thou didst want Maglor, too, not to leave thee.’  
  
He said nothing. It was true.  
  
‘Knowest thou there is a reality where Vanimöré found a way to kill Sauron and take his place, to become a Dark Lord himself, and one _not_ bound to the One Ring?’ she said. ‘Yes. Everything that can possibly happen has...somewhere.’  
  
A shiver chased over him like a stray breeze, or a cold finger on the heart. ‘You’ve seen these realities? And he...?’  
  
‘He has dreamed some of them yes,’ she replied. ‘But he does not trace himself, Marcus. He does not want to see what he did or did not do, or what he became, or did not become. He would tell thee it does not interest him, and that is partly true, but he is not like most people, certainly not like people in this world, who take selfies and spend hours in posing and choosing the best picture for their Instagram or Facebook and who who certainly wish to watch themselves or versions of themselves in any reality. Vanimöré has no self-love, and no desire to look on himself. In most realities he died and considers that was fitting. In only a very few, did he achieve apotheosis.’  
  
Understanding broke, cold and clear. ‘And wishes he had not?’  
  
‘Two things to understand about my brother,’ she said. ‘When we were children in Tol-in-Gaurhoth, lonely and hungry and afraid, he used to spin me tales about our being Elf-children, lost to the war, but that one day we might be found by our people. He was trying to give me hope, and himself, too. He never believed it in his heart, yet it was always his dearest desire.’  
  
‘I know,’ Marcus whispered through a tight throat. When he was young, it had been his dream too. Private, butterfly-fragile. A dream soon crushed by the hands of Melkor and Sauron.  
  
‘At the end, when he brought down apotheosis, Fos Almir, and gifted the Timeless Halls to the new Elven gods, he was happy. He could walk among them in the fullness of his power. He would not have expected love, even friendship, despite Fëanor’s claim on him: that he was of Fëanor’s blood and therefore family. To Vanimöré, he was unworthy, yet there is not one iota of humility in him. He sees himself clear and hard as Sauron’s son and therefore set apart from his Elven blood. To see them, move among them, was enough. And then...’  
  
‘Dagor Dagorath.’  
  
‘And the end of the universe. He saw them die, those he loved, save Coldagnir and Edenel. _And he wants them back._ The second thing is directly related to the first: He believes he cannot be loved, and should not be. The only difference, really between the Vanimöré of this reality, and the other, is that in this one, thou didst believe that Sauron loved thee. Or made thyself believe it,’ she added judicially. ‘Vanimöré did love, and deeply, but he is not the kind of person who needs it in return. He is self-sufficient. He had to be. But Elgalad loved him, or appeared to and Vanimöré, in time, came to accept it. And Elgalad betrayed him so completely that the wound will never heal — and yet, he blames himself, not Elgalad-Eru, or not wholly. His feelings for that one are like a supernova, difficult for anyone to approach, even a god, lest they be destroyed by them. But this I know: He believes himself foolish for ever imagining for one moment, anyone could love him, for wasting thousands of years of useless grief on someone who was not dead — or certainly not by his hand.’ She looked away, her eyes distant, as if into a past only she could see with clear sight. As if he were caught in the ambit of her vision he saw the face. It was not new to him, even before his eyes were opened, before he read Tolkien’s works, before Vanya revealed to him who and what he was, he had dreamed of this face: the cloud of silver hair, the sweetness it, and the expression belied by the firmness of the jaw, the set of the lovely mouth. And then it altered infinitesimally, to become that of Eru, still beautiful but ambiguous, incalculable as a earthquake, an exploding star, a landslide that kills without malice but without pity; the Eru of the ancient universe that had veiled himself so that Vanimöré would never see his face and know. His throat swelled.  
‘Was Elgalad...?’  
  
‘This I cannot see,’ Vanya said gently. ‘Perhaps it was as he said, as Eru said, that Elgalad _was_ real. The best part of him, a sliver peeled away and given life. If so, then he did die when Elgalad died, before the cataclysm.’  
  
It hurt too much. ‘Does Vanimöré know this?’  
  
‘He cannot know,’ she replied. ‘Eru is the one being he cannot read, cannot sense and cannot know. There is only one who can.’  
  
Marcus turned his head to look at her. ‘His creator,’ he said. ‘Eru’s creator, the one who brought _him_ into existence.’  
  
‘Yes,’ she agreed. ‘And who are they?’  
  
Marcus trod up the steps of the Clouds, held the door open for her. The oppression, the watching silence felt like a fog descending. He paused, looked back down the track to Claire’s cottage.  
‘Why is her house so protected?’ he asked. ‘Are you doing it? It is as if something vast and powerful moved through the air, the very earth and enclosed the cottage.’  
  
‘Not me,’ Vanya told him, with long lashes veiling her eyes. ‘But yes, I know it is there. A guardian.’  
  
He took a breath. ‘You almost admitted I was putting Luc in danger, bringing him here?’ he asked. ‘I shouldn’t have brought him, but...I always liked him, we just never really got to know one another.’ Except for that one summer evening, when they had talked while the fat, white moon rose and burnished the sky silver and the cicadas buzzed. ‘And what about Claire and the staff?’  
  
Vanya said, and there was something ancient in her voice, implacable, beyond human comprehension. ‘No life is without peril. But Luc Donadieu is not quite the same as most people. And thou knowest well enough Claire is not.’  
  
‘Yes’ he agreed. A goddess born out of an autumn moon and the first gentle mists, her fingers touching the leaves to bronze and gold... ‘I know about Claire. Does _she_? And what is Luc?’  
  
Vanya lead them into the sitting room. ‘Claire does not know, not yet, though she dreams. This is a land for dreaming, Marcus, always on the very edge of the Otherworld, and she feels. But it is not for us to tell her, no, nor anyone else, either.’  
  
‘No,’ he said doubtfully, flicking on the lamp.  
  
‘As for Luc...’ She smiled as if remembering something from long ago. ‘He will learn, and so wilt thou. Do not worry about them, Marcus. Both are stronger than even they know, and thou canst not imagine we—‘ referring to her brother and the others — ‘would allow anyone or anything to harm them?’  
  
‘Very well. But where _are_ they anyhow?’  
  
She sat down like a relaxing cat. A little smile moved her mouth. ‘Laying traps, my dear.’  
  
  
  


OooOooO

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again, thank you to Narya_Flame for letting me borrow Luc


	14. ~ The Mist Rises ~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Penultimate chapter. There has been a delay as my dear mum passed and then there was the funeral to get through. 
> 
> All my love and good thoughts to all of you at this time. Stay safe and well. We’ll get through this 💪

  
  


**~ The Mist Rises ~**

~ Vanimórë drove down to London to pick up his new model Continental GT, something he did every few years, selling the previous car back to the Bentley dealers. While in the city, he dealt with a few business matters and attended a briefing with Howard to iron out the last details of the plan.

‘Your men can come of course. There may be something to mop up, after, although I doubt it.’ At which Howard had cursed. Maglor and Tindómion had been dropped off at a village a few miles south of the Clouds; from there, they would make their way back. Edenel and Coldagnir left the car in Kings Lynn and also returned quietly.

Now, from his suite in the Savoy, Vanimórë looked out at the brash, blazing lights of London, the dark flow of the Thames. It was long past midnight. Earlier that evening he had treated Howard to an extremely expensive meal downstairs in the Kaspar; the man had earned it. Tomorrow morning he would drive back to the Clouds.

He did not require a great deal of sleep. He wished he did, longed to be able to sink into oblivion for a few hours, as near to non-existence as he would ever reach. But he slept only to dream...

He said aloud: ‘But not to dream what thou wouldst have me dream.’ He knew some of the answers, but not all. And he required all of them, the heart of the puzzle hidden him from a veiled face.

He shed his clothes, lay down in the sumptuous comfort of the bed and forced himself to consciously remember, like a man tearing open an old wound. But to learn, to _know_ , his soul had to go down into the dream stripped to its core, to whatever was left of him after the end, the absolute quintessence of himself.

_The horror of the moment after the ending of the universe...a nothingness scoured by a dead wind; the veil torn from Eru’s face, the veil torn from Vanimöré’s soul. The shock of betrayal that was truly no shock at all, and yet it had been the betrayal of trust, not of love that had shattered him._

He had always come into his powers, time and again: godhood, Overmind, through pain, through rage, through torment. Alone.

Darkness descended as the lights went out — all over London. And Vanimöré dreamed.

In the Clouds, Marcus floated on the borders of troubled half-sleep. He felt, outside of himself, Vanimórë’s magnet-pull, like the irresistible gravity of some immense, hidden planet. And because he _was_ Vanimórë in this world, and wanted to _be_ Vanimórë, he did not struggle against it but embraced it, plunging into fathomless violet eyes, into the dream...

Not his own dream-memory. This was, he knew, Vanimórë’s: some high-up place, a garden in the airs, and his father, Sauron, standing there as Vanimöré alighted with an awesome display of triple-wings vanishing into motes of light. An equal now, more than an equal, who spoke to Sauron with a mockery that Marcus-Vanimórë would never have dreamed of nor dared, with spite and yet with an odd respect and affection.

_You are an upstart,' Mairon hissed. 'You would be nothing without me. Everything you are, I created.'_

_Vanimórë laughed. 'Am I? Dost thou know what I am? What thou hast_ created?' _He looked gorgeous and terrifying, black hair massed around him the mane of a black lion, white teeth flashing, eyes blazing like forge-fired gems in his head. If Mairon had set out to create a god, this,_ this _is what he would have made. And by the gods, he was proud, but Vanimórë was still his son.  
'Because of thee, I am what I am now.' Fury ignited in his words. 'I thank thee, father.' He stepped behind Mairon and his hands clamped down. _ *

A voice out of the shadows, out of mist, cold, mockery laced through it, and an absolute certainty: _I think you will kneel to anyone who promises you the desire of your heart... Will you be as much as a disappointment as your brother?.. when you are ready, you will come to me..._

He turned from that voice and then — a pain at his heart so violent, so bitter and cold he curled around it, crying out.

_Ah, Eru, all universes are birthed in violence._

There was blood like a river, an infinity of it, stars rising from its depths...

He tried to wake, was paralysed. He could see the room, the shape of the wardrobe, the uncovered window, hear the malevolent, warning sounds of the house, but could not stir hand or foot. Though pain still pulsed at his heart, tiredness lay on him like a wrapping made of lead. He struggled against it, but a great hand pressed him down, sent him plummeting like a stone back into the dream-pool of sleep.

And—

— The knowledge had come to them slowly, like blossom alighting, the possibility that their own bodies could create and nurture offspring. At first they discussed it seriously, excitedly, almost clinically. There was no instinct within them to reproduce; they lived forever, could themselves create with their minds. But this was different, more laborious, and yet...

In the end, he was an experiment, that child.

The mother was Andúnië, she of the autumn moon and the first tinted leaves, and she gave birth in her palace on a night of wild autumn storm on a time that in other worlds would be known as Samhain, or All Hallows’ Eve. The great moon of that ancient First-world breasted the storm wrack of clouds like a ship on a tossing sea, while the scattering leaves whirled past the towers and lighted windows and the grey sea tumbled in white surf on the shore.

All the gods were gathered there, but only Eru and Andúnië’s handmaidens were with her, and to hand her the child, his tiny body cleansed with lavender and rose-water; only they heard his first cry—

— Vanimöré sat upright in bed, and the air tore into his lungs, like a child’s first breath when born. And the baby’s cry echoed in his mind before fading into unimaginable distances — into the past, into a universe long destroyed. He did not see the hotel room, the powdery moonlit illumination that fell like silk over the darkened city. He saw only the child.

The first child born and the only child begot by Eru.

Experiment he was, but they loved him, Andúnië and Eru. They watched his growth with delight, listened to his words, saw the wonder of the world through his eyes and remembered how it had been for them in their innocence and joy.

He grew swiftly, the god-child, tall and slim and wide shouldered, with a cascade of hair crow-wing black and eyes of deepest amethyst, skin like snow. And he went among the gods to learn from all of them. A new thing, a new creation, he was a vessel to be filled with all their powers. He explored the world, and then all that lay beyond, became one with the stars.

But he was, for all that he had been born, never a son. The gods had no concept of the word, then. He was simply himself, loved by them as they loved others, coeval and independent. As for the god-child, he had no concept of ‘parents’; they were teachers, mentors, deeply loved, but themselves, alone, and gods.

And yet...he was not happy. There was a seed within him that remained watchful, almost cynical. He could not unearth and examine it but it was always there, as if some part of him observed from a distance. His was not the corrosive bitterness of the rejected gods, but neither was it the certainty that Eru was the all-in-all. He would have approached those gods in their far-off fortress of enmity, but Eru stepped in to prevent him.

‘They cannot harm me.’

‘No, but I do not wish their wrongness to infect thee.’

‘Wrongness.’ He repeated the word, tasted it on his tongue, his lips. It was a new idea, though not wholly; it did not feel strange to that kernel of aloofness within him. Wrongness: something that ran against the natural order of things, stained it. They were not some shameful secret, those rejected gods; they were spoken of, but as one speaks of a puzzling aberration. He smiled that smile which he knew disturbed or excited others: bright and glittering and challenging.  
‘Why do they hate thee?’ he asked. ‘Why did they flee?’

Eru’s face, all that starlit beauty, the silver hair and those infinite eyes seemed suddenly cold and remote as the great icebergs in the northern seas.  
‘I could not love them,’ he stated. ‘They are...flawed, and the flaw came from me, from my mind, I did not even know it. Anger, hatred, greed, narrow-mindedness, obtuseness, the desire for absolute power, control.’ Puzzlement whispered through his eyes, making them opaque. ‘I understand those feelings but not where they came from, within me. They are outward projections of something — some wrongness — in my own mind.’

‘But how interesting.’ He tilted his head. ‘Then it must, surely, devolve from thine own creator.’

Eru’s gaze came to rest on him. An eternity lay in it. ‘Thinks’t thou that I have not tried to question my own creator? They have...retreated, will not answer me. Either he has gone or...But why does this concern thee?’ And his voice changed to become loving, caring.

In return he received that tinsel-smile. ‘It is the flaw that goes to the heart of the crystal. The crack in the world. How could it not concern me?’

‘There is no flaw in my world,’ Eru refuted, and there was steel under the mellow power of his voice that hardened with the next words: ‘And I will protect thee. All of thee.’

And, like a friend standing at one’s shoulder, speaking quietly, confidently, for him alone, Vanimórë heard himself speaking — and yet not himself, the timbre was colder, more complex, the voice of one fired in one a furnace, burned to nothing and risen again. It wrenched him around to face it, forced itself into his mind, pitiless, brooking no resistance and, as Eru continued to look at him, he realised with a shock that for all his power, _Eru could not hear this voice._

And it said, _He is lying to thee._

Vanimórë opened his eyes in the dim room, said the words aloud: ‘Eru is lying to thee.’

OooOooO

When Vanimöré arrived, the Clouds was empty but for Vanya sitting ladylike on the lawn with a cup of tea. He cast an amused glance at Marcus’ vehicle, raised his brows a little (their tastes were so similar) then bent to kiss his sister’s cheek and took a chair beside her.

‘Now we wait,’ he said. ‘where’s the boy and his friend?’

‘Shooting,’ she said placidly. ‘Archery. Over by Claire’s cottage. There’s a good field.’

‘Luc Donadieu,’ Vanimöré murmured. ‘Yes, everything comes together.’

‘And now,’ she said gently. ‘Thou hast thine answers.’ She placed her tea-cup precisely on its saucer. ‘That dream. The others shared it. That is what sent Marcus out early to see if Luc wanted to shoot, though they had discussed it anyhow. Luc and Claire were already up. Well, Claire is accustomed to being up early for the stables, but that was not the reason today.’

Vanimórë glanced in the direction of the cottage. ‘Andúnië. Yes. It makes sense. In all realities Eru has displayed an interest in her descendants. Culina. Claire. It troubles me.’

‘It should.’

He slammed a hand on the table, rattling the fine china. ‘And he can hide from me. Unless he chooses not to.’

‘Thou art still not sure?’ she questioned.

‘I am not certain Samael was Elgalad, no. How can I be? But I believe it. I simply wonder what he did with the real Samael.’

She nodded. ‘My instinct is that he means no harm. To any of thee.’

Vanimórë raised his head. ‘He destroyed us, Vanya.’

‘Yes,’ she agreed. ‘Because his children, in that ancient universe, turned from him and all he had done. A darkness entered paradise.’

‘I know,’ he replied. ‘I brought it there.’ He flashed her a crooked, ironic smile.

There was a long silence. Vanya shrugged her shoulders as if shaking of something, and rose.  
‘Shall we go down and watch them shooting? I put a picnic basket together. You,’ she added graciously, ‘may carry it.’

‘Of course, my dear.’

They strolled down the track with its flowering verge, and past the cottage. Claire had thrown the windows open to the still air. Rob Roi was grazing under the shade of a spreading chestnut. He lifted his head and came across to the fence, his stride a poem. Never could Vanimöré see him without remembering Seran on the wide sands of the Harad, or the Steppes of Rhun endlessly flowing to the horizon. No boundaries to the world of his courage and power.

‘Hello, beauty,’ Vanimöré smiled, presenting a carrot filched from the house kitchen.

‘Memories,’ Vanya said softly, cocking a brow. ‘Marcus has them, too.’

‘I’m sure he does,’ Vanimöré replied.

There was a path winding through the copse of trees that bordered the cottage. There, in the adjoining field Marcus and Luc had set out their targets. It was a suitable place, the grass grazed low and flat, the ground dry in this warm spring, and the day was just clearing from a light haze, not too bright, and windless. Claire was there, sitting with her arms around her knees, watching. Vanya and Vanimöré halted under the trees.

The young men were good, no question; their stances like the archers Vanimöré had seen in the Last Alliance, straight, unwavering as they shot into the advancing lines of orcs or Easterlings or Haradhrim. There was very little in it, both hit the gold time after time.

‘Not bored, Claire?’ Vanya asked, as they went to reclaim their arrows. Claire came to her feet, and the two men’s heads turned.

‘Not at all,’ she said simply. ‘It’s fascinating to watch the technique. They were teaching me, earlier.’

‘Good,’ Vanimöré said. _Although I think it is not bows for thee, Claire, but knives, like thine ancestor._

A faint puzzlement swept across her features like a ripple over a still pool, then Luc said, behind her, ‘There is a hundred pound draw on these bows, but you’re strong, Claire, from handling horses. It shows.’ He smiled warmly, teeth very white against his olive-tan skin.

She turned, laughing. ‘Very politic!’

‘No, very true,’ Marcus interpolated. ‘If you want to learn...Have you ever seen horseback archery? Imagine shooting from Robin’s back...’

Claire’s brows flew up in amusement. ‘That would be something to see! Can you do that?’

There was the tiniest of pauses. ‘Not now,’ Marcus said slowly.

‘Well, children, how about some lunch.’ Vanya said briskly. ‘It’s quite hot, and you must all be thirsty, and hungry, I hope.’

‘You’re an angel,’ Marcus exclaimed, and she laughed, ‘Hardly, my dear!’ Vanimöré spread out the rug and Vanya unpacked a succulent array of cold dishes and drinks. They sat and did full justice to the lunch, the salads and colds meats, the caviar and eggs, and fresh fruit, chased down by freshly pressed lemonade glinting with ice. After, they relaxed lazily as the sun chased back the lingering clouds and the shadows deepened to emerald under the trees.

‘That was wonderful,’ Claire said. ‘Thank you so much.’

‘Appreciation is the best reward,’ Vanya responded with a smile, but then Claire’s face changed as there was a surge of darkness, of muscle, a scent of hot horse-flesh and Rob Roi’s head came down in front of her to whiffle up a stray delicacy.  
‘You monster,’ she exclaimed, wrapping an arm around his neck. ‘He must have jumped the fence.’ She looked absurdly guilty, though her eyes laughed. ‘He does sometimes,’ she said to Marcus. ‘Didn’t Lola tell you? There’s not a fence here he can’t take.’

‘I believe you,’ Marcus said solemnly, and Claire said, the laughter overtaking the faint guilt: ‘There was a mare here to be put to the second stallion, Monty, who was out in the paddock with the other mares, and Robin simply jumped the fences in between and...well, the owners are delighted apparently, as the St, Cloud’s didn’t charge them for Robin, of course. They couldn’t have afforded his fees, but would have chosen him if they could.’

All of them laughed, looking at the huge stallion. Claire tapped him on the nose. ‘You’re terrible,’ she admonished him, sliding a mint out of her jeans pocket.

‘It is almost as if he likes to keep an eye on you, Claire,’ Vanimöré said thoughtfully as he packed the picnic basket.

‘It feels like that sometimes,’ she agreed, her face thoughtful.

‘We were taking about Peddar’s Way,’ Marcus said and, when Vanimórë flashed him a glance, he shook his head slightly. No he had not mentioned his encounter with Sauron and the so-called Black Shuck, or Carcharoth bound into an eternity of rage and hunger. Of the two, Sauron concerned Vanimórë more.

The stallion followed them docilely back through the trees, before demonstrating that the sturdy fence to his paddock was no barrier at all. Marcus flashed a delighted smile that turned wistful, and Luc said admiringly: ‘That is one incredible horse.’

‘I wondered if you’d like to eat here, tonight?’ Claire asked after a moment, drawing her eyes away from the paddock. ‘You’ve all been so kind. I’d like to.’

Marcus’ glance crossed Vanimórë’s, who said, _It will be tonight, but not until later._  
The young, beautiful face stilled, then he inclined his head. ‘Thank you, Claire, that would be lovely. If you’re sure.’

‘I’ll help,’ Luc offered, then, to Marcus. ‘I enjoyed shooting with you again,’ and handed him the bow case. Marcus put out a hand to take it, then smiled, drew back his hand.  
‘Keep it here; it’s more handy if we shoot again.’

OooOooO

Clive Reynolds was not a man subject to nerves, nor did he suffer from an overly-active imagination, which he considered a definite bonus in his line of work. He’d known Pete Roberts since school, had been his right-hand man in those first enterprising days when Pete set up as a loan shark in Acton. It was just him and Pete then to scarify the clients. There was a lot more money now, of course, but sometimes Clive looked back on those ‘good old days’ with nostalgia, and now was one of those times.

Since the news came of his son’s death, Pete Roberts had been losing it, and rapidly. Clive had never liked Justin, a spoiled brat who traded on his father’s doting affection (strange for such a normally clear-headed man) and knew he would clear up his messes and wipe his arse. There’d been some unsavoury things to clear up too, more than a couple of rapes but Pete Roberts, that tough businessman, never failed to come up with excuses for the boy.

The years hadn’t been kind to Pete; good food and wine had filled him out, given him a sausage-like fat and sheen with no good suit could disguise and he had long ago lost most of his hair, keeping the remainder shaved close to his skull like shadow. His once-keen eyes had sunk into folds and, these days, were frequently red-rimmed.

Personally, Clive didn't believe that the mysterious bulti-millionaire Lucien Steel had killed Justin, and wouldn’t have cared if he had, though naturally he had not aired his views to an increasingly unstable Pete. It wasn’t that he was hitting the bottle or taking drugs (prescribed or otherwise), but he did not sleep well, had the tendency to talk to himself and his temper was hair-trigger. The waiting was exacerbating his temper.

Clive wasn’t happy with the plan to go into the Clouds and put a bullet in Lucien Steele or any witnesses who happened to be around. He himself wouldn’t be there, and the men who had been hired or chosen were professional enough. It had been easier to find what amounted to ‘hit-men’ than anything else with the circles Pete moved in, but the plan was precipitate and too many things could go wrong. For a few days it seemed as if the hit would have to be called off, Lenny telling Clive that Lucien Steele and some of his friends had driven away from the Clouds and had not returned all night. Pete had displayed a disproportionate fury which was only calmed when the news came that Steele had returned. Still, Clive was not happy. Oh, the location was not bad, it was remote and lonely, but the Clouds did not exist in isolation; there was the stables and employees. Hence needing that little tit to show them a more private way to the house. Clive waited at a prearranged rendezvous with Pete’s men, a few miles down the road from the village.

Kenny arrived on an old Honda motorbike, pulling into the lay-by that Clive had chosen because it was screened from the narrow road by bushes and trees. There were vehicles there already, a transit van and Clive’s own car.

Kenny, pulling off his helmet, looked nervous and jumpy even though he had suggested this place to meet saying it was quiet. He paled even more when he saw the men waiting, and pulled a tin of tobacco from his pocket, nervously lighting the roll-up.

‘Here, then.’ He brought out his phone. ‘About 3 miles down the road. See this gateway, this track?‘ He traced it with one finger. ‘It’s a public footpath to the marshes, goes about 500 yards past the Clouds and onto Peddars Way, but don’t get off it until you reach the Way. Then, look. Here’s the back of the Clouds. I don’t know if they lock their doors now, but I do know that the door into the utility room, by the kitchen is busted and never works.’

Clive nodded. ‘Anything changed since we spoke?’

‘No. The others aren’t back. There’s only Steele, St. Cloud and his mum in the house. There’s a guest, young bloke, but he’s not staying there.’

‘Good enough,’ Clive admitted. Dealing with possibly three people was easier than a crowd.

‘I don’t know which room Steele sleeps in,’ Kenny said sullenly, nervously. ‘But there’s only a few rooms on the first floor that were ever used.’

‘Okay, then.’ Clive smacked his back. ‘Let’s get going and then you go on home.’ He nodded significantly toward the silent, dangerous men watching. ‘Everything goes to plan, you log in to your bank account tomorrow.’

‘Okay,’ Kenny agreed, dragging hard on his cigarette before dropping it and grinding it out. He pulled on his helmet and straddled the bike.

Two cars passed the lay-by, screened from them, but going fast. They waited until the noise receded. Kenny, who recognised the leonine purr of the Bentley’s powerful engine, shot a glance at Clive, who looked oblivious.  
‘Okay,’ he said again, started his bike and pulled out. The van followed.

OooOooO

The Clouds lay dark, silent, brooding under a bejewelled sky. The night was windless.

Standing on the dunes, Edenel and Coldagnir looked out to sea; The full power of the Sun bound into a human form, and the implacability of a winter formed in the Underworld.

The air was warm, the weather pushing up from Spain and the Azores, but for this, the area needed more heat. In the night, Coldagnir’s eyes flared red-gold, burning into white at their centre, the flame swallowing pupil, iris and white until twin suns blazed in his skull. Slowly, with infinite care, he allowed the heat to radiate, flowing across the land. As he raised his hands, ripples of sun-fire rayed from his body, his reaching fingers, blown back from the superheated fire at the core of him. Edenel smiled faintly as he stepped away, walked down onto the beach, to the sea. He stripped off his clothes and waded into the water. The North Sea was always a cool, grey sea, but he needed it colder.

It had not been cold in Utumno. The coldness that had taken root within Edenel was the ice of helpless despair. He remembered, sharp as the knives stripped from him at his capture, the stark teeth of the Iron Mountains, the breath of their eternal snows. But that had been nothing, _nothing_ to the frigid horror that awaited him. At some point, between terror and madness, the cold had entered, freezing him into supposed obedience, holding him waiting, waiting for the time he could escape. But he would not do so alone and, in the end, there had been no escape, and so few had left with him.

But this power had lain dormant within him for thousands of years, waiting for his apotheosis. He had never tested it, until now.

He waded deeper into the water, felt it creep over his belly, chest, up to his throat. He held his breath as it washed over his head, opened his eyes to the gloom of the night sea, illuminated by the far-floating moon. He felt the current tug at his loose hair, stream it about his body like seaweed. He saw that his eyes speared light far out, startling fish into darting away.

And with it came the cold.

The mist rose like a horde of ghosts escape in their unquiet graves. It flowed over the land, whispered through the marshes, rose toward the moon and hazed its brightness.

And it awoke other things.

OooOooO>

  
  
  
  
She woke from a dream of towers so high the clouds passed by them; of a moon pinned like a gold brooch in a sky where the first bronze leaves chased themselves into a wild darkness.  
  
It was not the first time.  
  
The dreams did not frighten her, as would a nightmare; there was nothing fearful about them, more a strangeness, something exotic, fantastical that then turned and looked her in the eye and caused her, with a leap of emotion, to _recognise_ it. But, like a flirt, it would be gone as she woke, groping to recall it.  
  
There was one impression that she did remember though. And had told no-one.  
These people, the bulti-millionaire, Lucien Steele, his companions, Marcus, Vanya Terra, even this new guest, Luc — she _knew them_. Not as people met or seen before somewhere; this feeling went deeper and — although she knew it made no sense — was more _ancient_ , something known in the blood. In bright daylight, she did her best to dismiss such fancies, but now, as she floated up from sleep, the feeling was strong, almost urgent. She shook her head, passed her hands through her hair.  
  
The illumination on her bedside clock told her it was only just past midnight. She had been asleep an hour, and could not imagine what had woken her. She sat up, listening, and then heard it, a sound she was attuned to: the snorting alert of Robin in the paddock. It was a sound she had heard him make before, most recently on Peddar’s Way. There was no fear in it; she imagined a warhorse standing facing a coming battle, pawing the ground.  
  
Her first thought though, was not something supernatural, but intruders. While it was rare for racehorses to be stolen (the most famous historical case being Shergar) it was not impossible, although she’d be extremely interested to see how horse-thieves attempted to kidnap Rob Roi. It was the one reason the eccentric St. Clouds and never been particularly concerned for his security.  
  
Silently, she got up, padded to the window. Standing to one side, she lifted the edge of the curtain, looked out.  
  
Fog pressed against the glass, muffling, pale as sheep-fleece. It started her; the weather forecast had made no mention of fog, and she had become used to it over the autumn and winter. They rolled in from the North Sea, rose over the wetlands. There was nothing to make her heart beat faster, nothing to brush the fine hairs at the nape of her neck with a chilling hand...  
  
She bit her lip then, without thinking, was pulling on jeans, boots, a sweatshirt. Her mouth was dry. She opened the bedroom door quietly and almost yelped to see Luc’s door swing wide.  
  
‘What is it?’ he asked.  
  
‘Robin...I’m not sure. I’m just going to check on him.’  
  
‘Have you seen the fog?’ he rejoined. ‘I’ll come with you.’  
  
‘There’s no need, honestly.’  
  
At that moment, the house seemed to rise under them, as if it was a boat lifted by a smooth wave. They staggered. Claire caught at the door jamb. Staring at Luc, she saw his dark eyes flown wide.  
  
‘What the _hell_...’  
  
Claire was uncertain, after, what she thought save that it might be an earthquake and, if so, they would both be better off downstairs, but then came Robin’s stallion’s scream of pure warning. She took the stairs two at a time, flung back the bolts on the front door to the wall of fog...and plunged into it.  
  
  
  


OooOooO


	15. ~ And the Night Brings Other Things ~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for death and for horror.

  
  
  
  
  
  


**~ And the Night Brings Other Things ~**

**London: Two Days Previously.**

~ Pete Roberts had not known his unusual visitor, though he suffered a brief and nagging feeling that he ought to. Neither would he have seen the man, save for the words brought into him as he sat brooding in the study.  
‘The gentleman says he knows how you can get to see Lucien Steele personally.’

Roberts looked up. ‘Send him in.’ And nodded to his bodyguard, the huge Terence, who squared burly shoulders and slid a hand toward his hidden gun.

The visitor seemed unconcerned with his reception. He was a tall, elegant man with hair of white gold, long and drawn back from his face, startling against his dark jeans and shirt. Roberts marked the deceptively simple clothes as expensive, and a deeper, more primal instinct recognised an internal power, a quality of leadership that was rare. Roberts knew well enough that that his own power was derived from bullying and violence, traits that came naturally to him. He was not ashamed of them, but saw that this man had no need to resort to either; what he was, was inborn. Strangely, for it was not an emotion he was prey to, a prickle of ice ran over the crown of his shaved head, spread down to his neck.

The man smiled faintly. Roberts might have called him, with derision, a pretty boy, with those emphatic, angular features, the great eyes, a pale shade of purple, the moulded curve of the hard mouth, but the mockery died and was gone with an uneasy emotion Roberts did not want to call fear. ‘Pretty’ was not a word that fit the cold, hard, almost inhuman beauty.

‘Mr. Peter Roberts?’ His voice was unaccented, deep and carrying in the dim, wood-panelled room. ‘Thank you for giving me a moment of your time.’

Roberts flicked ash from his cigar. ‘You know Lucien Steele?’ He allowed his skepticism to show. ‘And who are you?’

‘I know him very well.’ The odd, brilliant eyes glinted as if at a secret joke. ‘And have known him for a long time. My name,’ he added. ‘Is Arthur May.’

The name seemed familiar, Roberts motioned for him to continue.

‘I deal in antiques.’

‘Never heard of you.’ Antiques dotted his somber study. The man cast a glance around.  
‘Esoterica. I doubt you would be interested in the items that pass through my hands.’

Roberts grunted, heaved himself to his feet. ‘Why would you want to —‘ He waved the cigar. ‘Tell me about Lucien Steele.’ He ground the name through his teeth. Terence moved toward the man. Who lifted delicate brows.  
‘I did not say we were friends.’

‘What then? Business rivals?’

‘You might say so, yes. And you want to meet him, I understand?’

‘How d’you know that?’ Roberts tugged at his collar. There was a scent in the room, thickening, like incense and scorched metal. He ground out his cigar. ‘And how d’you know _him_?’

‘Do you think he just dropped in from some other world?’ The visitor flicked long fingers. A gleaming ring shone. ‘He has a history. He does not exist in isolation, Peter Roberts. And he worked for me...a long time ago.’

‘Did he now?’ Roberts glanced at Terence. ‘Right then.’ He thought he understood. Business rivalry was something he knew well; it could be as vicious as any broken marriage and messy divorce. ‘And what d’you want for this info?’

‘Satisfaction. And I think you do too, Peter Roberts.’

A heavy clock ticked in the following silence. Terence shifted a little, his eyes moving to his employer, back again to Arthur May.

‘I’ve got things in hand.’ Roberts lowered his voice to a threatening rumble, but the words fell hollow.

‘Have you? Do you not want to deal with him yourself?’

‘Sir,’ Terence warned, but Roberts waved a hand to stop him and Arthur May continued: ‘He does not keep bodyguards, has few friends. Chance alone took him to Norfolk.’

Roberts narrowed his eyes. ‘I heard its connected to MI6. I’ve got good sources too. You trying to come one over on me, May?’

A smile moved in the eyes. ‘Not at all. That is almost common knowledge, after all. Lucien Steele has connections everywhere, but the fact remains, he moves alone, for the most part, lives alone. And the government agents have now left the Clouds.’ Roberts nodded. He knew. Did May think him stupid?

‘Steele has the ear of many influential people,’ Arthur May said softly. ‘But so do I. One might say we are opposite sides of the same coin.’

‘Is that right? Well if you want him dead so bad, why isn’t he?’ Roberts plodded heavily to a side table and splashed two fingers of brandy into a heavy glass.

A glint of laughter. ‘I am patient. Call it a sense of fairness, Peter Roberts. Would it not feel far more satisfying to deal with him yourself?’

Their eyes met. Roberts tasted the brandy, let it melt over his tongue.  
‘He killed my son.’ He blinked back the sudden furious tears; they dried to hot hatred. His free hand clenched into a fist. In his mind’s eye he saw his son driving the car he had received as a birthday gift and was so proud of. The image flickered and changed: The car was rammed over a cliff face into cold, dark water. Roberts felt the grind and crash of metal, the flood that gushed into his nose and mouth, the panic of drowning. He hawked, spat out sour brandy onto the rug. Arthur May watched him, unmoved.

Yes, it would be satisfying. In the last twenty years he had left the physical stuff to his underlings but he thought of the wealthy Lucien Steele thinking himself invulnerable, so confident, so arrogant, and then...the blood-splatter, the pain he would deliver, the screams; how the man would beg for his life...He sucked in spittle.  
‘Go on,’ he said.

OooOooO

Terence drove; Arthur May seated tranquil as a swan in the back. They caught up with Steele’s Bentley sixty miles or so out of London. Roberts could not see the driver, save glimpses of a dark head overtopping the head-rest, but May had described him, said he would lead him to the man himself. Roberts hunched forward in his seat, straining his eyes. At his feet a gun lay in its case. Terence too, was armed.

Steele did not pause on that drive north. Sometimes Terence drew back a mike or so, but always they kept the Bentley in view as the land grew flatter, as they turned off the motorway and, eventually, onto quieter roads. At last, May tapped Terence on the shoulder.  
‘He will turn off to the Clouds in about half a mile.’

Terence, glancing at his sat-nav nodded. It was indeed half a mile on when they saw the Bentley turn into a tree-shaded drive. Terence drove on before pulling into a lay-by.

‘There is a village a few miles on,’ May said. ‘The Swan Inn will have good rooms. There is no point in doing anything yet. Wait for the night.’

OooOooO

From the air, one might have observed the passing van and motorbike, the big Rolls Royce that pulled in at a picturesque village some miles north of the Clouds. The occupants of the van and Clive Reynolds reconnoitred while Peter Roberts paced his room waiting, as Arthur May suggested, for the night.

‘You have to walk from the gates,’ he said. ‘A car may be noticed or heard, and it is not far. Oh, you will not meet anyone. The staff need to rise early for the horses.’

Roberts spoke one last time to Clive Reynolds, then turned off his phone. Clive did not know he was here, and Roberts wanted it to stay that way. He also wanted to get to the Clouds before Reynolds.

In the darkness, Terence cut the engine. He had pulled in at a lay-by a few hundred yards from the entrance to the Clouds. Roberts ordered Arthur May to go in front of them, under cover of Terence’s gun, and May did not object. They followed him up the curve of the drive. Reynolds steps were heavy, Terence’s cautious.

A mist was rising, drifting among the trees like wraiths. And some of the shapes were wraiths indeed. Arthur May, the only one of the three to see them, paid them no attention. The stables, the staff houses, stood quiet and dark. Only from further away a light showed at some outlying cottage.

The Clouds rose out of the smoky night like a relict, like a skull bleached by years at the bottom of an ocean. Sauron could feel the ancient energies loosed, the grief, pain, hate, madness and rage. The sensation shook through the soles of his feet.

The mist thickened. He heard Terence swear. Then the front door of the house opened, and a tall, slim dark-haired man ran out, turned left. He vanished in the fog. Arthur May raised his brows.

Roberts, thinking he recognised the man from May’s description, emitted a kind of moaning cry and heaved himself after the fleet figure. Terence cursed again, dived after his employer. Arthur May, waiting, heard the softer, quicker many-steps of the ‘official’ hit team running up the drive, saw how they ignored the open front door, their leader padding around to the side of the house.

Still he waited, smiling, heard, from the direction of the cottage, the war-scream of a stallion, a gunshot. Then the Earth heaved. His smile vanished. He recognised that ancient power, and had not expected it.

Making nothing of the fog that now shrouded the house and lands like white felt, he walked into it.

OooOooO

~ Vanya climbed the creaking stairs, walked a little way down the corridor, trailing her beringed fingers along the wall. Here, the last of the daylight was rendered blue-ish and cold. She stopped, waited calmly for the slow, dragging step that all of them had heard. After a few minutes she heard it. And with it, came the ghost.

The Drowner, so Vanya had dubbed her. A maidservant of a long ago lady of the Clouds, she had been charged with taking one of the woman’s newborn twins and killing it. A threat had been held over her head, and she had done the deed, drowning the baby in the old well, long filled in. But her conscience drove her mad and she, too, drowned herself in the same well years later, already quite mad. Her ghost, when it was seen, was described as a weeping woman dragging a sodden sack.

The woman’s aspect was that of nightmares, mouth held in a last scream, dead, occluded eyes.

‘Drowner, I release thee,’ Vanya said. ‘And after this night, go in peace.’ Her high heels clicked briskly through the apparition to the stairs. She ascended to the top of the house, to the small, dark maze of rooms. In one, sat a huge old wardrobe. Vanya flung open its doors.

‘Strangler,’ she said, to the ghost within, older than the Drowner, and the face rose out of the darkness to look at her. Mould speckled the cadaverous face; the clothes rotted. Long, snapping fingers reached for its next victim. ‘Come forth.’

She went from room to room, and as she walked she sensed the rising of old violence within the house, like some subterranean engine coming to life. With a delicate hand she thrust the heavy metal lid from the water tank, looked into the black depths. Something gleamed in the depths, white as bone.  
‘The ghosts of dead children haunt this house,’ she murmured. ‘Dead children, and their killers.’

In the room with the broken window, blown leaves whispered as she passed. There was a sound like a four-legged skitter, a small dark shape, moving. She gestured to the window; the remaining glass shattered. Outside, Disturbed from their night-roost crows rose, squalling, from the trees.

When she entered the living room, Vanimórë was standing against one wall, one foot raised, arms folded. Marcus, tense as a harpstring, spun round to face her.  
‘What have you done?’ he demanded, and his eyes raged blue-into-violet. ‘The house...gods, the house is _awake_ , as if something were rising from the earth...’

‘Yes,’ she agreed. ‘Or from memories buried within the earth.’ Her eyes went past him to the window. ‘And the fog rises, too.’

He followed her gaze, strode across and laid his fingers on the glass. ‘What is happening?’

‘Coldagnir and Edenel,’ Vanimórë straightened. ‘They work together to bring the mist, the fog.’

‘And the night brings other things,’ Vanya said. Marcus stared from her to Vanimórë, then strode to the door. ‘Claire and Luc,’ he exclaimed. ‘I’m going to the cottage!’

‘Marcus,’ Vanimórë snapped, so that the young man stilled, turned his head. A scent filled the room, Vanimórë’s distinctive Sandalwood odour and the smoke of agarwood, _oudh_ ; the first wood burned in the worship of ancient gods.  
More priceless than gold.  
Then Vanimórë smiled so beautifully, so blazingly that Vanya saw the shock strike through Marcus like a spear.  
‘Unveil thyself,’ Vanimórë commanded him with a little lilt to his smiling mouth. ‘Drop the glamour. Find thy power.’

It was as if Marcus has received the permission he longed for. It was one of the things Vanya did not know: how Vanimórë did this effortlessly. It was the essence of charm that had made him such a charismatic leader, that could have gathered him an army to conquer any land there was, even before his apotheosis. And yet, he rarely used it. She suspected he was unaware of it, or despised it as some gorgeous celebrity might despise the looks that made them famous.

Yet when it came, spontaneously from whatever moved him, it was as lethal as a narcotic drug. Marcus, with his short hair, his jeans and shirt, _glorified_ there and then, black hair ripping down from its high horsetail. His eyes lost their blue, burned purple as backlit amethyst. Vanya, as she looked at the two men, took in a sharp breath; they were mirror images facing one another. Then Marcus saluted Vanimórë with one sword, whirled crisply and ran from the room. They heard the front door creak open. There was silence for a moment. Above their heads, the Drowner walked, _thump-drag._ And then stopped, waiting.  
  
‘Well?’ Vanya demanded.  
  
Vanimórë shrugged. ‘It depends,’ he said slowly. ‘On tonight.’ He held out a hand to her. ‘Shall we go, my dear?’  
  
‘A moment,’ she said. ‘There is just one more thing to do.’ At Vanimórë’s lifted brow, she said gently: ‘I know him very well, brother.’  
  
‘Of course,’ he nodded, and they walked together through the hall, into the kitchen. Vanya went to the huge cookers and switched on the gas. ‘I will wait,’ she said. ‘Until the men have come through.’  
  
  
  
  
  


OooOooO 

The men had not expected the fog; neither had Clive Reynolds, waiting in his car. But perhaps it was a lucky chance. There was little likelihood of the team being seen or heard, not if they were careful, and they Should be. They were not the best, Peter Roberts being a notorious skinflint save when it came to his own comfort or that of his useless son, but they were adequate for this task, or so Reynolds hoped. They had been gone ten minutes now, and must surely be in the house itself. The mist had been less thick when they left. They would have found the place with no trouble.

He sat back in the expensive leather seat, ill-at ease, although he would not admit it, stranded in this lonely place, cut off by the sudden, dense fog. He was a city-boy to his very bones and the silence, now that the team were gone, was almost stifling.

Franks, leading the team, was annoyed, no more, when the fog thickened. The house showed no light now. It stood solid and yet ghostly, feet foundering in the drifting mist. Reynolds had stressed that horsey people went to bed early and rose early, so Franks was not surprised all was dark. Leaving two men outside, he found the side door, opened it to a warm dryness. There was a glow of light from a gas fire, the hum of freezers, nothing else.

The team entered behind him and they all paused to don their night-vision goggles. Frank’s were expensive, thousands of pounds-worth, the others of varied quality, but good enough, he judged, for this quick job. Cautiously, he approached the inner door, opened it to a large, dark kitchen. The smell of gas from the fire in the next room followed him. He ignored it, passed through it to another door beyond which was an empty hall. They moved quietly, saw the stairs climbing up into the dark. A floorboard creaked up there, then another...the tread of feet. They all went still. Someone was up there, getting ready for bed, no doubt. But first to check the rooms on the ground floor.

Empty, silent...except...when a shape crossed his vision, passed through the door back into the hall, Franks brought up his silenced gun. But it was gone. He thought he saw it flit up the stairs, but too fast surely, and with no sound. A shadow, vanishing. Nothing, just the effects of night-vision.

They gathered in the hall. An old clock stuttered. The stairs yawned like a black throat. Carefully, they ascended.

There were seven bedrooms and three bathrooms on the first floor, and all of them empty though some were clearly used. Another flight of steps lead up, suddenly lit by electricity. Up there, someone had turned on the lights. Franks hesitated, and then heard the unmistakable sound of footsteps almost above his head. He signalled to his second, Jones, then to the broken-nosed Irishman, Terry O’Sullivan, and Andy Niles to remain here.

O’Sullivan found himself reaching for the crucifix under his jacket. Since seeing the house looming through the thickening mist, he had been uneasy, and walking in, had the feeling that he was swallowed. It reminded him of his grandmother’s house in Kerry, a place he had hated visiting as a child. The old women had been a holy terror, almost as alarming as the run-down house she inhabited. He and his siblings had been sure it was haunted. The Clouds, though far bigger, evoked the same childlike fear. Shapes appeared to flicker on the borders of his night-vision goggles, as if the fog itself had got in; it swirled in strange shapes, half-human. The rooms had the sense that someone had only just left them and he, too, had heard the footsteps. If the people here had gone upstairs, why? Did they know someone was coming? Had their informer bottled it, and told his employer about the hit? The thought served to banish his nerves.

He turned. Far along the passage a tall, narrow window showed pale.  
A dark shape moved across it. _Ah_. He stilled, raised his weapon as a slow footstep sounded, a scraping drag followed, as if someone dragged a sack behind them. He motioned his colleague back, and took a marksman’s stance.

The movement stopped. But something was there, crouched and still. O'Sullivan half-grinned in anticipation of the kill.

There came a waft of scent that reminded him of the churches of his childhood, thick with incense, and then it faded and another took its place: rank, like the bottom of a stagnant pond stirred with a stick to bring up the mud and rot beneath. His smile fell away; the hairs rose on the back of his neck, but he held position.

Again the step, the following drag. The shape moved toward him.  
‘Andy,’ he hissed. ‘Torch.’

A thin pencil-beam stabbed down the passage, and  
— Showed a woman, her mouth gaping as in a soundless scream over white eyes. Water ran down her face, her clothes. One hand dragged something behind her, a sodden, lumpen sack; though a tear, a tiny hand lolled.

 _Thump-drag_.

Andy let out a yell like a man burned, and his pistol thudded.

The shape was gone. It seemed to collapse into the floorboards. And still, that stink of mud, of rot.

Ice spidered over the crown of O’Sullivan’s head. He spun to Andy, who was backing away, gun and torch beam wavering wildly. Then Andy lost his last nerve; he turned around, yelled again, louder, and O’Sullivan saw, behind him, the woman, closer now, the drowned mad face silently screaming. The tiny hand peeking out of the sack flexed, moved.

He shot, once, twice, three times over Andy’s cut-off scream, saw Andy slump to the floor, killed by O’Sullivan’s own frantic bullets. The rot-stench crowded into his nostrils like a plague...He back-pedalled frantically down the corridor.

Franks, removing his goggles, heard the scream, the shot, signalled to one of his men to hold. He did not like how this was going down. The house felt empty...and not empty at all.

Footsteps further along the corridor. He followed, came to a crossing of ways. The lightbulbs had been turned on all along the passages, but they were murky, as if there was some kind of brown-out. Nothing moved. He waited, feeling the crawl of sweat on his brow.

Behind him again footsteps, quick, furtive. A door clicked. He listened, but there was nothing else. A women’s steps, he thought, this Marcus St. Cloud’s glamorous foster-mother, no doubt. Well, she would squeal Lucien Steele’s hiding-place quick enough. He had no compunction in using torture on a woman. It worked.

He trod up the corridor, blank, closed doors on each side, until he saw one creaking open, too old to secure properly. Standing to one side, he pushed it open, flicked on his torch.  
‘Okay, bitch, let’s stop chasing around,’ he said lightly. ‘I‘m armed and I’ll kneecap you if you do anything stupid. Got it? We need to talk.’ He nodded to Brian Jones beside him.

There was no sound from within the room. Jones whirled inside, crouching, weapon raised but there was nothing. The place was bare save one huge water tank in a corner. Jones straightened, walked over to it, but there was no space behind it or under it for anyone to hide. He signalled, shrugged.

With a curse, Franks spun back into the passage. He heard a door creak-creak, as if catching an air current. And then he smelt it: the moist thickness of fog over the musty damp of these abandoned rooms. He left Jones, crept up the hall to where a door swung gently to-and-fro. This time he gave no warning and the door crashed back on its hinges.

There was a dry skitter and he swung toward it, gun trained, but it was only a litter of leaves in a corner. Fog poured in through a the shattered window-pane. He lowered the weapon a little, teeth clenched in frustration. The door snicked closed behind him. He turned toward it. The dead leaves rustled again, a dry, rasping sound. Rats. There was a flutter of wings in the window. A crow called, harsh, mocking. Franks swore at it.

The leaves shifted again. A rat.

A rat with a little round head, twisted to one side, a pale, naked body...a baby’s body, crawling on hands and knees. Crawling fast as a tiny dog toward him, the head till bent unnaturally, as if broken and fixed in that one position, but coming on, coming straight at him.

He knew he shouted, knew he fired, heard the muffled reports of the silenced gun. He saw the bullets hit, the empty, gaping wounds — and the thing still came at him like a terrier.

Terror exploded black-white through his mind. He fumbled at the door, which stuck, even as the creature closed on him, and then it opened, almost spilling him into the passage. He gathered himself, voice yelping panic through the acid of fear in his throat, and ran.

Jones leaned over the water tank. The blackness rippled a little, cold, dark. He shrugged. It was deep enough for someone to hide in, but no-one would be that stupid. No-one could do it for more than a minute.

He straightened, then his eyes narrowed. A whiteness swam up from the depths. It broke the surface. A hand. Tiny, a baby’s hand, pale as a dead fish. He started, staring, mouth open as the water sluiced from the hand, and then another, and a head came up. Hairless, eyes black pits that stared into his own.

He stumbled back, shapeless words breaking from his mouth, and turned to run, then froze as woman came out of the shadows. The speckled rouge of mould lay under empty eyes. Long hands, dry flesh shedding from bone, reached out before her, fingers flexing to grasp. He stumbled back, away from her, catching his feet in an old torn rug. He overbalanced, fell against the tank, staring down at the water, dark now, still again...

...Tiny hands rose up, grasped his jacket, two, four, six of them, hands that should never have had the strength to drag him under the water, wetness soaking his jacket, filling his screaming mouth.

His legs kicked violently. Bubbles streamed to the surface and broke. And then, all was still.

OooOooO

Lambert and Hobbs had become separated by the mist. There was no point, they agreed, in remaining outside when they couldn’t see their hand in front of their faces, and were debating in low voices whether to go into the house or find their way back down the drive to the waiting van. The latter being decided on, Lambert took a step back and half sprawled, his hands touching cold metal, clammy with the fog. One of the cars, perhaps that rich bastard’s Bentley. He sneered, fumbled for the Bowie knife to puncture the tyres. Couldn’t be too careful, maybe the sod would try to make a run for it.

A sound brought his head round, a drumming on the ground, and he wondered if one of the horses had got out. Then there rose an unearthly howling that poured ice-water down his spine. He turned, trying to peer through the fog and with sudden impatience, tore off his night-vision.  
‘Hobbs?’ he whispered. ‘Hey, Hobbs?’

There was no answer. Then the air lit red, like a burning house, Lambert thought, but the glow was concentrated and moving. Mouth agape, he staggered back against the car.

It came with a rush like an oncoming train, a great back beast, eyes that burned red over a great fanged jaw. Wolf-like, but more huge than any wolf that Lambert could have imagined. A monster out of the dark. He groaned, raised his gun, but it was on him, a wall of malice and death. There was smell of sulphur, a terrible cold that burned; the stink of his own scorched hair and clothes —then Lambert was falling, shots spent on the shrouded sky above him.

It took him a moment to realise he was still alive. His shoulder had hit the car, dropping him to the damp gravel. He had lost his gun. He rolled, gasping, to his knees, every bone felt racked, and his beard was singed, but he was alive. He pushed himself to his feet. And then he saw them: Two figures burning like white flame against the murk. A Catholic like O’Sullivan, he thought their faces were that of destroying angels. Naked swords blazed in their hands. On their heads they wore circlets that seemed limned by fire. Two pairs of eyes, silver as polished metal, held him as if pinned.

‘Go,’ one of them said and his voice held harmonics that plucked every raw nerve in Lambert’s aching body, resonated like a harp-note through the air.

He scrambled to his feet, crying, praying to a god he had long ago walked away from. Losing control of his bladder and bowels, he half-shambled, half-ran into the fog.

OooOooO

Terence had lost his boss, lost all sense of direction and lost all faith in this operation which he had objected to from the first. Now, he thought only of finding his way back to the drop-off point. He would have to report to Reynolds and did not know _what_ to report, save that he was sure this hit had gone to hell. Still, he had the keys to the car. Sod Pete Roberts. There were others who would be more than happy to employ Terence.

And then the earth rose under his feet. Rose and fell as if he were on a boat. There was a grumbling roar and, overpowering, even through the fog, a smell of greenery, woods, ripe, rich earth pushed on a thick gust of wind.

The air billowed into green-gold, and Terence saw a cottage, a young man; ropes of hair, olive-tan face. It was not the one Roberts had followed, but Terence fired anyway. The man ducked.

A shape surged up and through the light, enormous and impossible; tree-like, but supple, moving, a face lovely and alien, blazing eyes...Terence’s mouth opened in a shout; he fired again and again.

The monster towered over him, and then from under it ran the young man, lithe and supple. He seemed almost a part of the creature, as if it had birthed him, something in the flowing, feral movements. Terence shot wildly, inaccurately toward it. The young man did not flinch. In a heartbeat he was still, standing firm, rooted as a tree. He raised a bow, sighted down the length of an arrow.

An arrow, Terence thought stupidly, as the shaft buried itself in his throat. His breath went, and his sight darkened, black-red as the blood choked him. He felt, as he fell, the whaleback shift of the earth, the patter of soil on his face, in his mouth...

Sauron saw Carnán* rise out of the land, protector of that cottage for how long, he wondered? He saw Terence fall to the young man’s shot, the earth split and pull the dying man under. The ancient power, aware of Sauron now, rose up, beating green-gold light against the fog, glaring at him. He allowed some of his own power to release, and smiled.  
‘The wrong place and the wrong time, my dear,’ he said softly in his own language. ‘We are both on the same side here.’

For a moment, Carnán hesitated, then flung herself down into the earth. It steamed, writhed, then settled as she went deep, deep. Sauron could feel it under his feet, as if some juggernaut were travelling far underground, rushing off toward the road.

The light faded, the fog, thinner now, whirling back in. Sauron saw the young man staring at him, bow still held in firm hands. Emanations of shock pulsed from him, but also a grim determination. Sauron smiled, kissed his fingers, and stepped into the concealing murk.

OooOooO

Claire knew the way to the paddock, though she found herself groping in front of her, the fog seeming to beat at her eyes, muffling. Her steps were short, truncated; she half expected the earth to shift again, and almost hit the white bars of the fence.

‘Robin,’ she whispered, as she climbed it. ‘Robin.’

Hooves thudded. She smelt the stallion’s hot, clean scent and then saw him, black, massive, reassuringly solid. Her hands touched his neck, stroking, reassuring.  
‘Robin, it’s okay,’ she murmured. ‘It’s just fog.’ It was not and he knew it just as she did. He was tense, sleek hide smoking in the chilled air, throwing off heat like a furnace. He flung back his head, snorted, stepped forward. From the fence, she slid onto his back. Huge, dangerous, almost a force of nature, yet she felt safer astride him, feeling the bunch and slide of his muscles under her. His ears, laid flat against his skull, flicked in warning. He shrilled; a trumpet’s challenge. She heard, unbelievably, a sound like a gunshot. Another. Robin stood like a rock, even as she flinched down over his neck in reflex.

 _Claire._  
  
Her name, an urgent cry in her mind, that brought her head around, Robin turning in obedience to the pressure of her thighs. She saw, as it were, a corridor in the mist, a dim figure at the end of it, beckoning. There was no way she could recognise it at his distance, and yet she was sure she knew it: Luc, Marcus, Vanya — someone, anyway, someone familiar in the posture of their body, the movement of their muscles. Robin’s own muscles bunched and he launched himself toward it — or away from the cottage, the threat of the gunshot, the shifting earth. Claire sat down like a bur, hands in the streaming mane.  
  
Later, even long after, waking from some backward-looking dream, she only remembered glimpses of that wild ride. It was dangerous to ride at night: a horse could stumble in a rabbit hole, breaking a leg, throwing the rider, and there were other hazards, but Robin ran as if his very hooves could feel the indentations of the ground below. He raced through the fog-bound tunnel like a runner with their eyes fixed on the finish line of a race. Once, twice, he launched himself over a runnel of water, a lazy stream meandering down to the sea. She felt that he had never gone faster; tears ran from her eyes, and when she blinked them away the shining figure was still the exact same distance away. And now, she was not so sure she knew them, and old tales flickered into her speed-stunned mind: wil o’the wisps who lured unwary travellers deep into marsh and bog. But still Robin ran until the breakneck speed gradually slowed, and she felt the suck of mud under his hooves. Mud in a dry season. She straightened as he came to a halt, stamped. Steam rose from his neck like the vapour from a boiling kettle.  
She knew where they were, the direction that bolt had taken them, though not why Robin had stopped here.  
The marshes; its rank rotting scent, stagnant water. But through it came another odour, fading: something almost unbearably fresh and sweet, like the first rain ever to fall on a new world. Rainflowers.  
  
‘Who’s there?’ she whispered.  
  
After that ride, the night’s silence fell like a stone around her. That in itself was unnatural; from her open bedroom window she would hear, as she drifted toward sleep, the marsh birds, the rhythmic peeping of frogs. Now there was nothing but Robin’s breaths and her own. She laid a hand on his hot, sleek neck. The figure she had followed was gone, and who had they been anyhow? It occurred to her now, with an uprising of shock, that though Robin had galloped like running fire, they had never caught up with it.  
  
The skin on her back flinched in a sensation of vulnerability; she looked around but although the mist was lighter here, her sight lost itself a few feet away. She was conscious of the loneliness of the marsh and how, northward, their water-channels became deeper and more treacherous. There were paths through for bird-watchers, reed-cutters, and she had followed them herself, riding to the beach, but this was no place to become lost in.  
  
And then, she saw a flash of light, a strange greenish gold; it lit up the air like the glow of a vast torch. There was a roaring rumble, something like the thrash of a forest under a gale, the deeper roar as of an earthquake.  
  
_What is happening here_?  
  
Her heart jolted, sped up as a sense of unreality swept over her, dizzying, and helpless. She fought the panic as if it were an enemy to be defeated. As it was. She could not afford it. _One thing at a time, Claire_. She swallowed convulsively, then set her teeth. Luc was back there, and there had been gunshots. Somehow, that seemed the most incredible thing of all, but then she thought of the government agents who had shut down the Clouds, and it became, if not less frightening, more believable. But... _They’re not the same thing at all. There are two different things at work here._ And they had collided. Whatever she was caught on the edges of, there was danger. But the others were in danger too.  
  
‘Robin,’ she murmured. ‘We have to go back.’  
  
As if he had been waiting for her words, the stallion turned, hooves picking across the tufted grass, the moss, the mud, delicate as a dancer. Occasionally he paused, snorted and changed direction, then went on. This time he was slow, careful.  
  
The glow in the sky had died, as had the noise. She though she heard it echoing away. It would certainly have woken the staff and they would be ensuring the horses were all right.  
  
Robin’s cautious progress give her too much time to think. The clammy air chilled her, clung to her hair. She found that she was biting her lip, tasted the salt of her own blood. Now and then, in the mist she heard the _plop_ of some creature in a hidden pool.  
  
Then a breeze touched her cheek. Robin checked, the vapour swirled past like dancers with diaphanous veils. For a few moments it cleared the way before her.  
  
There was a man standing there. His figure, black in the night, was big, hulking. She heard, now that Robin was still, the stertorous wheeze of the man’s breath.  
Every sense within Claire screamed in warning, and the stallion voiced it, a trump that blared into the night. It was followed by a shot that whined past her. She ducked, but Robin did not move, though his muscles quivered under her.  
  
‘You get off that fucker and come here.’ The man’s voice was rough-sharp, with a London accent. ‘You get off him, or I’ll blow a hole in him. Where’s that Steele? Where is he?’  
  
Pure fury drove the fear from Claire’s mind, and through it tolled a cool, clear warning: the man did not sound sane.  
‘I don’t know.’ Distantly, she was surprised at the flatness of her reply. ‘Not _here_.’ Her fingers smoothed Robin’s neck.  
  
‘You come here.’ Another bullet tore past her. ‘I’m not fucking joking.’  
  
She slid to the ground. She wished the fog would return, but the breeze was pushing it northward, the air clearing all the time. The earth squelched under her feet and she thought, as she walked, that this could not be happening, that things like this did not happen to people in quiet English villages.  
  
‘Where is he?’ the man demanded again. Closer now, Claire smelt the rancid sweat of exertion on him, and something she could only think of as the stink of hate.  
  
‘I don’t know,’ she said again. A hand came out and grabbed her arm, fingers biting into her flesh.  
‘Right, course you don’t.’ he shook her. ‘Yeah, you know where he is, bitch.’ The gun jabbed her sharply. He pushed. ‘Go on, move! I ain’t going to stop you walking, but I’ll shoot you somewhere painful if you try anything.’  
  
The wind, warm from the south, strengthened, blowing mist before it. The air took on a luminous sheen as the moon broke through, silvering the marsh. From not far away a voice called: ‘You were looking for Lucien Steele?’  
  
The man startled, turned, wrenching Claire around with him. She saw the tall, slim shape in the moonlight, but this was not Steele. The voice was that of Marcus St. Cloud. But... _was_ it? She saw the billowing flow of long, long hair in the night-wind.  
  
‘Come on.’ Another jab of the gun, but Claire heard the rattling breath in the man’s throat, the wet cough, as that reek of violence rose higher. With a little pulse of obstinacy, knowing it was foolish, she dug in her heels.  
  
‘Well?’ Marcus drawled. ‘What are you waiting for? Who _are_ you, anyhow?’ As if this gun-carrying thug were no more than the mud under his feet, an insect crawling on his clothes. And Claire knew exactly what he doing. He wanted to make the man holding her lose his temper, let her go. Although she was sure Marcus could not see the movement, she shook her head violently at him.  
_Don’t be stupid. Can’t you see he’s insane_?  
  
‘You killed my boy. My Justin. _You killed my boy_.’  
  
There was a pause, and Claire’s heart hammered. Then Marcus said, boredly: ‘Oh, him. He was nothing at all.’  
  
The hand on Claire’s arm dug clear to the bone with the man’s spasm of fury. She heard his voice, sounding as if it came through the top of his head, as he screamed: ‘You fucker, you fucker!’ Shots rang out and then, there was a rush of movement and Robin was on them. Claire saw his great teeth bared high above as he reared, saw his hooves descend with killing force. The man’s grip convulsed, then released her. She reeled aside on instinct. There was a sickening crack of bone, a splatter of wetness on her cheek.  
  
She thought that just for a heartbeat, she blacked out, but some deeper strength within her shrugged it off. She was kneeling on the damp ground, and forced herself to her feet, crying Robin’s name, to ‘Stop!’ He reared and stamped as if killing a poisonous snake. The inert, huddled lump of a body was still. She could smell the blood, and then with a shock, she remembered the gunshots and looked wildly around.  
  
‘Marcus!’  
  
She skidded to his side, knelt and it out a hand. Hot wetness welled over her palm and she tore savagely at her shirt to try and stem the wound.  
‘Marcus!’ she commanded. ‘Don’t, don’t...’  
  
‘Claire, are you...alright?’ His voice was already weak, coming through the blood in his throat.  
  
‘Marcus!’ she screamed, terrified and furious and not knowing what in the world to do. ‘  
  
A hand touched her on the shoulder. She smelt incense, rich and potent. Her head snapped up. Lucien Steele stood there — and yet _not_. This was not even a man. He wore leathers like a warrior, the hilts of two swords rose from a harness on his back. His hair plumed like Robin’s tail, and his eyes, against a skin white as milk, burned violet. There was a presence to him that was like a weight on the axis of the world. Claire’s lips parted. Her heart stuttered against her ribs.  
  
Marcus shaped a word. ‘Vanimórë.’ like a prayer, and Claire heard the man who was no man release a breath like a sigh and go down on one knee. A dagger flicked into his hand, sliced across the other in one smooth move. Blood showed black.  
  
‘Don’t!’ She grabbed at the sliced palm. The movement dusted blood against her mouth, it burned in her bitten lip. Her vision seemed suddenly to become pin-sharp; scalding heat surged through every vein.  
  
The god watched her. She heard the moan of a lonely wind, felt the desolation of blown dust across a dead world.  
He spoke, his voice was hot wine poured in a distant temple and drunk to the oldest gods. The language was almost alien, but something in the shape of the words showed themselves teasingly. She found her lips shaping them, repeating them.  
  
Gently, he touched her cheek, then, as she stared at him, he clenched his bleeding fist, held it over Marcus’ mouth. She knew how it tasted, potent, metallic.  
  
Marcus gulped, coughed, then curled in on himself, crying out.  
  
‘I never said it was easy,’ admonished Vanimórë, but his arm went around Marcus’ shoulders, holding him until the spasm passed. Claire heard Marcus’ breathing steady. And all the time she was thinking: _This has happened before. This has happened before._ And that taste was still in her mouth. It was not altogether unpleasant. It was almost familiar. _Drug of the gods, too powerful for any mortal body to bear._  
  
‘I have made mistakes before,’ Vanimórë said, but he glanced at Claire with a shadowy smile. ‘Do not become one of them, Marcus St. Cloud.’  
  
‘Why?’ Marcus demanded. ‘ _Why_?’  
  
‘Thou didst place Claire’s life before thine own. Perhaps that was enough. Now, let us go back,’ Vanimórë helped Marcus to his feet, held out a hand to Claire.  
  
An explosion thundered across the night, shocking, immense. They looked across the moon-drenched land to where a glow of fire lit the sky.  
  
  
  
  
  


OooOooO 

Clive Reynolds started the car. Fuck this. He was leaving. The engine purred into life. He was out of here.

The car jolted under him, shifted sickeningly. He gaped, seeing the mist pour down, and then a stomach-churning feeling as if he were being dropped down in a lift shaft. The headlights showed a streaming wall of earth and rock. He clawed at the door. He screamed.

OooOooO 

O’Sullivan half-fell down the stairs. He pounded his way along to the front door, but it was locked. He kicked it, rattled the handle, swore.

_Thump-drag_

There she was on the stairs. Oh god, oh god!  
But there was the kitchen. They had come through the kitchen. He could get out that way. Fuck this house and this hit! He stumbled back down the passage, and kicked the kitchen door open. He reeled straight into the stench of gas. It set him coughing as he ran toward the next door.

 _Thump-drag_. He stopped in one footstep, whimpering. Behind him, in front of him, to the side. His eyes swung wildly around the empty kitchen.  
_Thump-drag._

He slid one foot forward, then another, choking on gas, head spinning. And the utility room door swung open.

She came through it, mottled and drowned, and mad.

The scream came up in his throat. He shot at her and even as did, realised that there was a reason one should not shoot in a room filled with gas.

The _Whump_ of the explosion shivered the stone walls. Franks heard it as he ducked into one of the seemingly endless small rooms. The thing out there was still coming like a clockwork figure that will not stop until the battery dies. His throat was dry as sand. He was out of bullets; they had not stopped it; it simply came, skittering and crawling along the floors, following him.

The door swung open behind him. He saw the ghastly little shape enter, picking up speed as it spied him. He wailed and backed away, flung back the door of the big wardrobe and slid in, pulling it behind him.

Black-dark and silent. He could break down the door in the morning. Maybe in the morning the thing would be gone. Maybe there would be someone who could help him. He closed his eyes. The wardrobe was huge. His hand touched old cloth. He smelt mothballs and mustiness.

And then, impossibly, movement behind him. The scent of old clothes, of ancient mould rose stronger. He tried to turn.

Long, bony hands closed about his throat.

OooOooO

* Carnán is a forest spirit and supporting character in Middle-earth: Shadow of War. A physical embodiment of nature, she resides in the forest in Nurnen that bears her name. (Wiki)

Thank you for reading. This is the end of this story but not the series. There will be one more after this.

**Author's Note:**

> Banner by the lovely Mithrial
> 
> https://mithrial.dreamwidth.org/


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